In the world of football it's transfer window day. Whoopie! I'm overjoyed and thrilled. Is there anything more exciting. There are few events that capture the imagination of the football supporter more worthy of mention. Every team in the Premier League looks briefly at its enormous squad of players, weighs up its options and believes wholeheartedly that the exercise is a constructive one.
Up and down the Premier League - and quite possibly the rest of the League - football fans will be biting their fingernails and hoping against hope that their team will invest multi millions of pounds on the greatest players currently plying their trade at Bayern Munich, Barcelona, Real Madrid or any team bankrolled by Chinese owners with a deep and vested interest in your team. Then again they look at their bank balances, considerable revenue streams and budgets and find that maybe these players are unnecessary and surplus to requirements.
At the moment Sky Sports TV are rolling out an all day singing and dancing extravaganza. This is the day when managers are seen stylishly pulling away in their Range Rovers from their club's training ground and holding their breath. Transfer window day is unlike any other day in the football calendar, a celebration perhaps of football's obscene wealth and yet by the same token, glamour. Which may or may not be a good thing. Still it does keep football supporters on their edge of their seats.
It is a day that reminds you of a noisy cattle market. There's a constant frenzy of excited haggling, bartering and hard negotiating where every Premier League fan finds themselves privately wishing that their club can finally unearth that glittering jewel in the crown, the missing piece in the jigsaw puzzle. It may be possible that the whole day is completely pointless and once again highlights the sheer greed and mindless materialism that continues to infect the game.
So here we are on the final day of January and football's sense of globalisation and internationalism is now reaching out into markets previously untapped. The transfer window is the trigger point and catalyst for the whole of Europe and the rest of the world to dip into their pockets and spend as if money were somehow going out of fashion.
Now the whole of Europe, Africa, South America and every point of the world compass will be taking out their cheque books and signing players they hope will not only strengthen the core of their squad but will guarantee the Premier League title. Premier League squads are more like the carousel at airports with players spinning around like suitcases. There is that endless rotation of players employed in every team that almost feels as if the manager can never be sure of his best team.
And this is the way it seems to the outsider. You spend millions and millions of pounds for a set of players, try to find a suitable role for them and then regret your decision because the player has neither settled in the team or is like a fish out of water. After a season or two it becomes abundantly clear that the players who have signed for your team have no intention of playing for you any more. This is because either the family are unhappy or the children have, quite possibly, been mocked at school.
Which is where we came in for Dimitri Payet, now back at Marseille, the club who nurtured and encouraged him. After only a season and half at West Ham, Payet may not be the last player to change his mind when perhaps he should have thought things through. But the fact remains that Payet has now become the archetypal villain of the piece and the club are now in the throes of wiping out his image outside the London Stadium. For West Ham this must feel like some wondrous fairy tale that was too good to be true.
Payet signed a five year contract at West Ham from which the club were hoping for five years of loyalty, emotional commitment and excellent form. Given the substantial amount of money he would be earning at West Ham it seemed the least the player could do was to deliver his best football. But then Payet now tells us that he was unwell which would seem to suggest that either the player was medically unfit or just totally disinterested in English football.
Of course Payet was, and still is, a delightfully talented player, a player of extraordinary gifts with educated feet and a vast repertoire of goal- scoring free kicks. But when it came to his family's financial security and his personal happiness Payet had to be true to himself. And yet as a life long Hammer I hope Payet will examine his conscience and question his own judgment. Still on reflection West Ham may feel that they have now parted company with a player whose heart was never really in the club.
Way back when, French superstars like Raymond Kopa and Just Fontaine played football because they knew that money may have been regarded as a secondary consideration. Of course money plays a vitally important role in any job but for Kopa and Fontaine it may well be the game itself that brought ultimate job satisfaction rather than the lure of big bucks. Then football was a simple, uncomplicated business where priorities were somehow different and the whole morality of the game bore no resemblance to the present day.
Transfer window is, to the impartial observer, just seems like a licence to print money. Players are herded around the country like livestock and the whole merry go round keeps whirling around at the most dizzying of speeds. Sadly football and loyalty are now somehow totally disconnected with each other and, realistically. may belong to some old family album. The harsh reality is of course that the whole concept of the football transfer market and loyalty to the club, is no longer as relevant as it used to be. In fact it's probably a dated anachronism that means nothing to anybody in particular.
Tom Finney of course is the most obvious example of one player who spent his entire career at Preston without a hint of disenchantment. Finney was a one club man and committed himself to Preston because Preston gave him his chance in football and he felt a deep love and affinity to the them. The Preston plumber was suitably rewarded with an illustrious England career and the undying admiration of everybody within the game.
Finney could have been attracted to Italian football and Seria A. But Finney was trustworthy and reliable, never disappointing anybody. He scored goals for both Preston and England without feeling as if his talents could ever have graced any other stage. Finney was stoutly loyal and the very thought of moving to any big time club would have seemed alien to his nature. He was Preston born and bred and had he been transferred to another club then maybe the Deepdale faithful would have been permanently hurt and never allowed him to come back.
So it's starting orders for the football transfer window and the great footballing stampede. Around the country Premier League managers are gazing through that window and wondering whether it looks a bit dirty and smudged. The feeling is that the window is in dire need of a good wipe and clean. There are a couple of hours left and it could be that some of us would rather turn off our TV sets and go back to the everyday business of life. It may be time to collectively switch off until tomorrow. After all the sun will come out tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar it will come out.
Tuesday 31 January 2017
Sunday 29 January 2017
Sunday Sunday- oh bliss or just another Tony Hancock day.
Sunday- oh bliss or just another Tony Hancock day.
OK. It's the last Sunday of January and you're all ready to settle down for the Sunday roast with the family, a quick jog, a leisurely stroll with the dogs, tennis in the rain, a couple of pints in the local and then a day devoted to quiet contemplation.
In the living room the clock ticks away in the most aristocratic fashion, dad slumps in his chair with a relieved sigh, the dogs scurry around the family home and the children groan almost resignedly about the school homework. Mum meanwhile runs in and out of the kitchen like an Olympic athlete and all of the family charge up and down the stairs a thousand times searching for something. Sundays have always been like this. It is a weekly Sunday occurrence.
And yet the question has to be asked. Is this another Tony Hancock Sunday or are we all going to drive down to the furniture store and finally buy the carpet and sofa we'd been promising ourselves for ages? Maybe we'll take that long drive down to the country and that glorious spot next to the river. This is what Sundays are all about and it's hard to imagine what the likes of Tony Hancock would have made of today's non-stop, 24/7 society.
Hancock was one of Britain's funniest of all comics and there is something about Sunday that he never really warmed to. Hancock, that hang dog faced comedian, famed for his sour face and that permanent air of misery, would probably have despaired of the 21st century. The chances are that he would have taken one look at Sid James face and sulked for the rest of the day anyway regardless of the century.
Both Hancock and Sid James will always be remembered for that celebrated Hancock Half Hour episode which revolved solely around Sundays. Poor old Hancock. He didn't stand a chance. Maybe he had a premonition that Sundays were going to be a complete waste of time. And so it was that he and Sid James did what they could to while away the hours, enduring through gritted teeth the sheer monotony of their Sunday.
There was Hancock, all drooping chin, a lost and desolate figure who had probably come to the conclusion that Sundays should never have been invented. For what must have seemed a lifetime, Hancock sat at the kitchen table, tapping his fingers restlessly on the table, staring vacantly into the middle distance and was almost inconsolable. Every so often he would sigh and then sigh again just to prove that it wasn't an illusion. Before we knew it depression had set in and Hancock began to complain with that rather sad and lugubrious face almost sagging into the Sunday gravy.
Then there was Sid James. James had already established himself in the affections of the British public with those hilarious Carry On capers with Kenneth Williams and company. James, another grim faced funny man who made a career out of a silly cackling laugh, sat next to Hancock with a heavy heart and what looked like accumulated anger. Then both men just aired their public grievances and suffered in silence. It is TV comedy at its most polished and refined, a masterclass of timing.
Suddenly Tony keeps bothering and pestering Sid because there's nothing to do and the day is interminably long. Tony then launches into an impassioned rant about the slowness and general inactivity of Sunday. Hancock insists that there has to be something to occupy his time. There had to be something better than Family Favourites on the radio and the church service across the road.
Sid, of course keeps leafing through the News of the World Sunday newspaper for gossip and scandal but only finds Harold Macmillan on Page 2 with all his homespun political philosophies. The world, according to Hancock, is falling apart and will shortly disappear with the Test Card. Sid, he feels. has to be told. Britain is just staggering from one Suez crisis to another. Bread and milk have gone up again and the British economy is in danger of sinking beneath the waves.
Still. it's hard to believe that things could have got any worse for both Tony Hancock and Sid James and besides we're in the 21st century and there are loads of things to do on a Sunday now. There are all kinds of social diversions and distractions now. Supermarkets, garden centres and furniture stores are open from early Sunday morning until the fading hours of Sunday afternoon. Sunday has all those unbroken continuities and familiarities that Sunday has always been associated with but now they've been joined by new novelties, stimulating electronic gadgets and high tech games.
Now Sunday has arrived again. Millwall are playing Watford in the FA Cup, football is now played on a Sunday which would have been regarded as sacrosanct and forbidden over 50 years ago and everybody is doing something on a Sunday. How drab and dreary life must have been for Messrs Hancock and James and yet how thankful we are for the joys of modern technology. Time to catch up on those e-mails. Have a good Sunday everybody.
OK. It's the last Sunday of January and you're all ready to settle down for the Sunday roast with the family, a quick jog, a leisurely stroll with the dogs, tennis in the rain, a couple of pints in the local and then a day devoted to quiet contemplation.
In the living room the clock ticks away in the most aristocratic fashion, dad slumps in his chair with a relieved sigh, the dogs scurry around the family home and the children groan almost resignedly about the school homework. Mum meanwhile runs in and out of the kitchen like an Olympic athlete and all of the family charge up and down the stairs a thousand times searching for something. Sundays have always been like this. It is a weekly Sunday occurrence.
And yet the question has to be asked. Is this another Tony Hancock Sunday or are we all going to drive down to the furniture store and finally buy the carpet and sofa we'd been promising ourselves for ages? Maybe we'll take that long drive down to the country and that glorious spot next to the river. This is what Sundays are all about and it's hard to imagine what the likes of Tony Hancock would have made of today's non-stop, 24/7 society.
Hancock was one of Britain's funniest of all comics and there is something about Sunday that he never really warmed to. Hancock, that hang dog faced comedian, famed for his sour face and that permanent air of misery, would probably have despaired of the 21st century. The chances are that he would have taken one look at Sid James face and sulked for the rest of the day anyway regardless of the century.
Both Hancock and Sid James will always be remembered for that celebrated Hancock Half Hour episode which revolved solely around Sundays. Poor old Hancock. He didn't stand a chance. Maybe he had a premonition that Sundays were going to be a complete waste of time. And so it was that he and Sid James did what they could to while away the hours, enduring through gritted teeth the sheer monotony of their Sunday.
There was Hancock, all drooping chin, a lost and desolate figure who had probably come to the conclusion that Sundays should never have been invented. For what must have seemed a lifetime, Hancock sat at the kitchen table, tapping his fingers restlessly on the table, staring vacantly into the middle distance and was almost inconsolable. Every so often he would sigh and then sigh again just to prove that it wasn't an illusion. Before we knew it depression had set in and Hancock began to complain with that rather sad and lugubrious face almost sagging into the Sunday gravy.
Then there was Sid James. James had already established himself in the affections of the British public with those hilarious Carry On capers with Kenneth Williams and company. James, another grim faced funny man who made a career out of a silly cackling laugh, sat next to Hancock with a heavy heart and what looked like accumulated anger. Then both men just aired their public grievances and suffered in silence. It is TV comedy at its most polished and refined, a masterclass of timing.
Suddenly Tony keeps bothering and pestering Sid because there's nothing to do and the day is interminably long. Tony then launches into an impassioned rant about the slowness and general inactivity of Sunday. Hancock insists that there has to be something to occupy his time. There had to be something better than Family Favourites on the radio and the church service across the road.
Sid, of course keeps leafing through the News of the World Sunday newspaper for gossip and scandal but only finds Harold Macmillan on Page 2 with all his homespun political philosophies. The world, according to Hancock, is falling apart and will shortly disappear with the Test Card. Sid, he feels. has to be told. Britain is just staggering from one Suez crisis to another. Bread and milk have gone up again and the British economy is in danger of sinking beneath the waves.
Still. it's hard to believe that things could have got any worse for both Tony Hancock and Sid James and besides we're in the 21st century and there are loads of things to do on a Sunday now. There are all kinds of social diversions and distractions now. Supermarkets, garden centres and furniture stores are open from early Sunday morning until the fading hours of Sunday afternoon. Sunday has all those unbroken continuities and familiarities that Sunday has always been associated with but now they've been joined by new novelties, stimulating electronic gadgets and high tech games.
Now Sunday has arrived again. Millwall are playing Watford in the FA Cup, football is now played on a Sunday which would have been regarded as sacrosanct and forbidden over 50 years ago and everybody is doing something on a Sunday. How drab and dreary life must have been for Messrs Hancock and James and yet how thankful we are for the joys of modern technology. Time to catch up on those e-mails. Have a good Sunday everybody.
Friday 27 January 2017
Holocaust Memorial Day- We must never ever forget.
Holocaust Memorial Day- We must never ever forget.
Today is Holocaust Memorial Day. It is a day for sombre reflection, deep and abiding sadness, measured consideration and above all remembrance. It is a day that should never ever be forgotten because its meaning, profound and vital significance should always echo resonantly throughout the decades, centuries and generations for ever more.
It is a time for loss, grief, pain, hurt, of tragic reminiscence. lighting candles in quiet corners of our lives and praying for our loved, adored, admired and highly respected. For they were the ones who gave their lives and subsequently suffered the most abominable fate. Whole families, communities, friends, neighbourhoods, enormous swathes of humanity were savagely killed and murdered for nothing whatsoever. And therein lies the greatest tragedy. All populations and demographics were wiped out with one fatal and bloody blow. It was death and relentless torture of the most brutal kind.
I'm the grandson of Holocaust survivors. My feelings and reactions are reflected by the entire population of the universe. There is a raw undercurrent of bitterness, fury, pain and utter revulsion which may never go away. I can never even begin to imagine the sheer immensity and magnitude of the Second World War and all its attendant horrors. It is hard to find words for the vile and despicable actions of the merciless and barbaric Nazi killing machine. The scale and severity of the Holocaust is totally beyond human comprehension. It should be seared on our consciousness for ever more.
So this is my personal homage to my wonderful grandparents and mum who sacrificed everything and much more than anybody can ever imagine. I'm Jewish and I'm deeply proud of it but no-one will ever know how deeply my wonderful grandmother was affected by the Holocaust. I saw the agony and almost unbearable trauma she experienced years and years after the Holocaust.
I saw my lovely grandmother tormented and traumatised by the Nazis. I saw her hysterically reliving those agonising moments when all hell visited her. Even in the mid 1970s my grandmother was still utterly convinced that those repulsive and abhorrent Nazis were still crawling the earth. She flung her entire body in all directions, shaking and trembling, gripped and paralysed with the most overwhelming fear. She ran across her living room terrified by what seemed be an invisible but what to her seemed a very real presence.
My grandmother was the loveliest lady, a deeply tactile and warmly affectionate grandma who lavished both my brother and I with R-Whites Lemonade, crisps, sweets, adoring hugs and everlasting love. My grandmother was an angel and a paragon of virtue, the finest of all grandmas, the very best and she certainly didn't deserve to suffer for as long as she did towards the end of her sweet life. She was the epitome of kindness and generosity, of tolerance and forgiveness. My whole family will always remember and never forget her. She will always be in our soul. This must never happen again.
Today we should all put down our tools, pause in supermarkets. ponder in offices and bow our heads in deep reverence for those who unforgivably perished in the most horrendous act of genocide of all time. We should hold Holocaust ceremonies on every conceivable piece of land. We should take time to say our tender prayers for those who we never saw but felt we knew. They were the ones who were dragged to the gas chambers, starved torturously in concentration camps, beaten to death and then left to rot in muddy ditches, bodies thrown into pits, lifeless skeletal corpses now gone for ever.
So I would now like to appeal to everybody. The Holocaust must never ever be allowed to happen again. As a grandson of the Holocaust horrors I ask you please. We should never forget the vicious violence, the naked and remorseless murder and manslaughter, the savagery and sadistic pleasure that every vile Nazi took from their atrocities. It should never be witnessed again at any time in anybody's life.
Life of course is full of grave injustices, travesties of justice, miscarriages of justice. Life is littered with cruelties, terrible tragedies and global instabilities that may never seem to make any sense. We sigh with despair at the foolhardiness of our politicians, the outrageous outpouring of the fascists, the extremists, the sceptics and the downright ignorant. Sometimes we get it absolutely right but over 70 years ago we unreservedly got it completely wrong and the crimes committed then may never be forgiven.
A new film starring Timothy Spall and Rachel Weisz highliights the one man who quite categorically denies that the Holocaust ever took place. Denial charts the life of the deplorably misinformed historian David Irvine. Denial is more than just a historical tableaux because it also heightens awareness of one man and his stubborn act of scepticism, his rabid racism and arrogant intolerance.
Irvine has since somewhat sheepishly backtracked on the numbers of Jews who died in the gas chambers but this probably amounts to no more than a feeble apology. This is not a personal attack on David Irvine but maybe I should tell you exactly what happened to my wonderful grandmother and then you might begin to change your mind. I somehow doubt though.
So now is the time to ignore all of those narrow minded imbeciles, those blindfolded revisionists who think that Holocaust was some glorified Hollywood movie, a drama acted out on some decaying film set, a figment of everybody's imagination. The Holocaust was the most horrific of all abominations, the most vulgar of all obscenities and if a certain Mr David Irvine should ever decide to take his head out of the proverbial sand I personally would be grateful if you would simply leave history where it is and just allow the facts and figures to speak for themselves.
This is not a personal attack on David Irvine but I would kindly ask you not to question both the documentary evidence, the visual evidence and those who were never allowed to speak for themselves. Of course Holocaust Memorial Day is a vitally important day and I'm afraid Mr Irvine is desperately and foolishly wrong. We must never ever forget Holocaust day. Let us all light a candle.
Today is Holocaust Memorial Day. It is a day for sombre reflection, deep and abiding sadness, measured consideration and above all remembrance. It is a day that should never ever be forgotten because its meaning, profound and vital significance should always echo resonantly throughout the decades, centuries and generations for ever more.
It is a time for loss, grief, pain, hurt, of tragic reminiscence. lighting candles in quiet corners of our lives and praying for our loved, adored, admired and highly respected. For they were the ones who gave their lives and subsequently suffered the most abominable fate. Whole families, communities, friends, neighbourhoods, enormous swathes of humanity were savagely killed and murdered for nothing whatsoever. And therein lies the greatest tragedy. All populations and demographics were wiped out with one fatal and bloody blow. It was death and relentless torture of the most brutal kind.
I'm the grandson of Holocaust survivors. My feelings and reactions are reflected by the entire population of the universe. There is a raw undercurrent of bitterness, fury, pain and utter revulsion which may never go away. I can never even begin to imagine the sheer immensity and magnitude of the Second World War and all its attendant horrors. It is hard to find words for the vile and despicable actions of the merciless and barbaric Nazi killing machine. The scale and severity of the Holocaust is totally beyond human comprehension. It should be seared on our consciousness for ever more.
So this is my personal homage to my wonderful grandparents and mum who sacrificed everything and much more than anybody can ever imagine. I'm Jewish and I'm deeply proud of it but no-one will ever know how deeply my wonderful grandmother was affected by the Holocaust. I saw the agony and almost unbearable trauma she experienced years and years after the Holocaust.
I saw my lovely grandmother tormented and traumatised by the Nazis. I saw her hysterically reliving those agonising moments when all hell visited her. Even in the mid 1970s my grandmother was still utterly convinced that those repulsive and abhorrent Nazis were still crawling the earth. She flung her entire body in all directions, shaking and trembling, gripped and paralysed with the most overwhelming fear. She ran across her living room terrified by what seemed be an invisible but what to her seemed a very real presence.
My grandmother was the loveliest lady, a deeply tactile and warmly affectionate grandma who lavished both my brother and I with R-Whites Lemonade, crisps, sweets, adoring hugs and everlasting love. My grandmother was an angel and a paragon of virtue, the finest of all grandmas, the very best and she certainly didn't deserve to suffer for as long as she did towards the end of her sweet life. She was the epitome of kindness and generosity, of tolerance and forgiveness. My whole family will always remember and never forget her. She will always be in our soul. This must never happen again.
Today we should all put down our tools, pause in supermarkets. ponder in offices and bow our heads in deep reverence for those who unforgivably perished in the most horrendous act of genocide of all time. We should hold Holocaust ceremonies on every conceivable piece of land. We should take time to say our tender prayers for those who we never saw but felt we knew. They were the ones who were dragged to the gas chambers, starved torturously in concentration camps, beaten to death and then left to rot in muddy ditches, bodies thrown into pits, lifeless skeletal corpses now gone for ever.
So I would now like to appeal to everybody. The Holocaust must never ever be allowed to happen again. As a grandson of the Holocaust horrors I ask you please. We should never forget the vicious violence, the naked and remorseless murder and manslaughter, the savagery and sadistic pleasure that every vile Nazi took from their atrocities. It should never be witnessed again at any time in anybody's life.
Life of course is full of grave injustices, travesties of justice, miscarriages of justice. Life is littered with cruelties, terrible tragedies and global instabilities that may never seem to make any sense. We sigh with despair at the foolhardiness of our politicians, the outrageous outpouring of the fascists, the extremists, the sceptics and the downright ignorant. Sometimes we get it absolutely right but over 70 years ago we unreservedly got it completely wrong and the crimes committed then may never be forgiven.
A new film starring Timothy Spall and Rachel Weisz highliights the one man who quite categorically denies that the Holocaust ever took place. Denial charts the life of the deplorably misinformed historian David Irvine. Denial is more than just a historical tableaux because it also heightens awareness of one man and his stubborn act of scepticism, his rabid racism and arrogant intolerance.
Irvine has since somewhat sheepishly backtracked on the numbers of Jews who died in the gas chambers but this probably amounts to no more than a feeble apology. This is not a personal attack on David Irvine but maybe I should tell you exactly what happened to my wonderful grandmother and then you might begin to change your mind. I somehow doubt though.
So now is the time to ignore all of those narrow minded imbeciles, those blindfolded revisionists who think that Holocaust was some glorified Hollywood movie, a drama acted out on some decaying film set, a figment of everybody's imagination. The Holocaust was the most horrific of all abominations, the most vulgar of all obscenities and if a certain Mr David Irvine should ever decide to take his head out of the proverbial sand I personally would be grateful if you would simply leave history where it is and just allow the facts and figures to speak for themselves.
This is not a personal attack on David Irvine but I would kindly ask you not to question both the documentary evidence, the visual evidence and those who were never allowed to speak for themselves. Of course Holocaust Memorial Day is a vitally important day and I'm afraid Mr Irvine is desperately and foolishly wrong. We must never ever forget Holocaust day. Let us all light a candle.
Thursday 26 January 2017
The Donald, Theresa, Hilary and Boris show.
The Donald, Theresa and Hilary and Boris show.
January looks down in the dumps at the moment. It probably needs cheering up, a pick me up. Perhaps we should take it to the cinema for a bit of escapism, a good, old fashioned romantic weepie, or maybe some monumental, action packed adventure movie. I'll get the popcorn and hotdogs January because you deserve it. Take it easy January. You've done brilliantly.
I've just looked out of the window again and January looks grey once again, metallic grey, battleship grey, haggard, gaunt and completely lacking in life. There is a gravity and solemnity about today that almost feels natural for the time of the year. Everything looks grim and bleak. The temptation is to just curl up into a ball and just hide in a dark cupboard. To most of us January just looks very worn and tired, sleepy and languid, a month that reminds you of the Beatles Long and Winding Road, that yawning period of time that almost seems colourless and soulless.
Here in Britain Prime Minister Theresa May has just confirmed that future relations with the United States of America will be not be jeopardised by anything. If anything it'll be strengthened by our permanently harmonious alliance. Ever since the halcyon days of Roosevelt and Truman America has always called Britain its best buddy. America and Britain have always done things together because we just love each other. Theirs is a mutual appreciation of each other, an entente cordiale as the French would say. Their interests and cultures may be entirely different but we do know how to throw a good party or barbecue during the summer.
It'll be interesting to see what happens when our Theresa and Donald from the White House meet up for an amiable chat over coffee and presumably doughnuts. The conversation should be a fascinating one with plenty of references to Brexit and the EU but then things could get slightly lost in the translation. Of course we speak the same language and of course we get on with each other. But then talk may turn to Donald's inflammatory comments about women and this could be a sticking point. There could be several moments of social awkwardness and differences of interest between the two.
The problem here is that Donald may come a cropper. Theresa May will express her concerns and Donald, for perhaps the first time, will be speechless and dumbfounded. Donald, by his own admission, insists that he respects and loves women and yet. There is a big question mark over Donald's head. The accusations of sexism and misogyny may well come to haunt Donald Trump but there is a nasty smell in the air and the visit of a British female Prime Minister will not help Mr Trump's cause at all.
Theresa May, will of course, be at her most polite and courteous. She will graciously accept any compliments Donald will inevitably make. She will extend the hand of friendship and hospitality from this very driven and motivated man. And, if all goes according to plan, she may agree to attend an American football match, perhaps the imminent Super Bowl. But she will smile very agreeably and maybe bite her lip. This is not the way she thought things would pan out for her.
There is a logical thought process here. If Hilary Clinton had become the next President of the United States then both May and Clinton would have certainly become soul mates, forming a kindred spirit into the bargain. This is because Clinton and May are strong and formidable women who are determined to shake things up and go for it. Both are sensible, practical and realistic which is what women have always been. Men just go to war and muck everything up. Women sort everything out.
No longer- and this has been the case for a number of decades- are women the meek, submissive housewives who spend the whole day cooking, baking, washing, cleaning, sewing and being bound to the kitchen sink. The days of domestic servitude are now a thing of the 1950s past and women have boldly announced themselves as confident and purposeful career types who can literally juggle a thousand plates, multi task and be everywhere. Women have always committed themselves to the family and the strength of the family unit but Theresa may have hit an unfortunate brick wall because Donald's family is not quite the one she was hoping to meet.
Theresa will not be chatting to Hilary but a blond haired bombshell by the name of Donald Trump. Now Donald's family is big and hearteningly united. But maybe Theresa would have preferred Hilary's family although on second thoughts maybe not. There's Hilary husband Bill and we all know about their domestic troubles. To the outside world there is a strong thread of dysfunctionality running through both families but I still think Theresa would have plumped for Hilary. And so the frothy soap opera continues. Life has to go on.
Anwyay back at the White House Donald Trump will now be carrying out one of his many election promises. Trump meant what he said at the time. That wall will be built and the people of Mexico must be feeling very hurt and rejected at the moment. What have they done to deserve this treatment? It's at times like this when the countries of the world become very angry and defensive. Mexico, you suspect will not be getting a Christmas card from Trump and the next couple of months could become very messy and complicated.
After the shocking and tumultuous events of 2016 maybe we need to cool down and chill out. Things were far too hectic and frenetic so this could be the right time to settle down and retain our composure. It is still hard to believe that a once bankrupt and corrupt businessman is President of the United States and Boris Johnson is British foreign secretary. But then the unlikely does occasionally happen at times and who knows what lies ahead. Perhaps Phil Collins will come out of retirement. Hold on a minute. He has. Good to see you Phil.
A part of me will insist that I've just dreamt it all and then reality will intrude. On the surface, there is something in the air that tells me that all of the above are in the wrong jobs at the wrong time. There is an enduring air of incompatibility here although the optimists among us may be hoping that they can slap each other on the back, have a good laugh and form lasting friendships.
And yet if we employ commonsense and shrewd decision making it could just work out for the best. Theresa will gently guide Britain out of the European Union with care and attention to detail, Donald will doubtlessly charm everybody he meets up with, smile meaningfully for the cameras and then pinch himself because even he can't believe his luck. Who'd have thought it hey? Donald Trump is the 45th American president. It is set in stone and nobody can take that away from him.
So what about Boris Johnson here in Britain. Boris has now, quite perversely, established himself as a national treasure. The behaviour is now well documented, the persona quite definitely eccentric and ever so slightly incomprehensible. There are facets of Boris's character that challenge any description. And yet Johnson is endearingly old fashioned, conservative with a capital C and very definitely old Etonian.
We all know by now that Johnson's hair looks as if it's done 12 rounds with either of the Klitschko brothers and the suit looks as if it was never tailor made for him. And yet there is something essentially lovable if dandyish about him. The cynics will insist that there is something alarmingly buffoonish about Johnson but anybody who can speak several languages and quote Homer has to be reckoned with.
So there it is ladies and gentlemen. I give you Theresa May, Donald Trump but not Hilary Clinton. Still Hilary maybe it wasn't fated to be. But time is a great healer and who knows the political landscape may look completely different in 10 years time although it's hard to believe so at the moment. Hilary as they say is history but Theresa, Donald and Boris has all the makings of an entertaining chapter in our lives. The characters are wonderfully contrasting but all three should certainly keep us entertained for the next couple of years. I know I'm looking forward to the next intriguing episode. That crystal ball could be quite handy. Keep going 2017.
January looks down in the dumps at the moment. It probably needs cheering up, a pick me up. Perhaps we should take it to the cinema for a bit of escapism, a good, old fashioned romantic weepie, or maybe some monumental, action packed adventure movie. I'll get the popcorn and hotdogs January because you deserve it. Take it easy January. You've done brilliantly.
I've just looked out of the window again and January looks grey once again, metallic grey, battleship grey, haggard, gaunt and completely lacking in life. There is a gravity and solemnity about today that almost feels natural for the time of the year. Everything looks grim and bleak. The temptation is to just curl up into a ball and just hide in a dark cupboard. To most of us January just looks very worn and tired, sleepy and languid, a month that reminds you of the Beatles Long and Winding Road, that yawning period of time that almost seems colourless and soulless.
Here in Britain Prime Minister Theresa May has just confirmed that future relations with the United States of America will be not be jeopardised by anything. If anything it'll be strengthened by our permanently harmonious alliance. Ever since the halcyon days of Roosevelt and Truman America has always called Britain its best buddy. America and Britain have always done things together because we just love each other. Theirs is a mutual appreciation of each other, an entente cordiale as the French would say. Their interests and cultures may be entirely different but we do know how to throw a good party or barbecue during the summer.
It'll be interesting to see what happens when our Theresa and Donald from the White House meet up for an amiable chat over coffee and presumably doughnuts. The conversation should be a fascinating one with plenty of references to Brexit and the EU but then things could get slightly lost in the translation. Of course we speak the same language and of course we get on with each other. But then talk may turn to Donald's inflammatory comments about women and this could be a sticking point. There could be several moments of social awkwardness and differences of interest between the two.
The problem here is that Donald may come a cropper. Theresa May will express her concerns and Donald, for perhaps the first time, will be speechless and dumbfounded. Donald, by his own admission, insists that he respects and loves women and yet. There is a big question mark over Donald's head. The accusations of sexism and misogyny may well come to haunt Donald Trump but there is a nasty smell in the air and the visit of a British female Prime Minister will not help Mr Trump's cause at all.
Theresa May, will of course, be at her most polite and courteous. She will graciously accept any compliments Donald will inevitably make. She will extend the hand of friendship and hospitality from this very driven and motivated man. And, if all goes according to plan, she may agree to attend an American football match, perhaps the imminent Super Bowl. But she will smile very agreeably and maybe bite her lip. This is not the way she thought things would pan out for her.
There is a logical thought process here. If Hilary Clinton had become the next President of the United States then both May and Clinton would have certainly become soul mates, forming a kindred spirit into the bargain. This is because Clinton and May are strong and formidable women who are determined to shake things up and go for it. Both are sensible, practical and realistic which is what women have always been. Men just go to war and muck everything up. Women sort everything out.
No longer- and this has been the case for a number of decades- are women the meek, submissive housewives who spend the whole day cooking, baking, washing, cleaning, sewing and being bound to the kitchen sink. The days of domestic servitude are now a thing of the 1950s past and women have boldly announced themselves as confident and purposeful career types who can literally juggle a thousand plates, multi task and be everywhere. Women have always committed themselves to the family and the strength of the family unit but Theresa may have hit an unfortunate brick wall because Donald's family is not quite the one she was hoping to meet.
Theresa will not be chatting to Hilary but a blond haired bombshell by the name of Donald Trump. Now Donald's family is big and hearteningly united. But maybe Theresa would have preferred Hilary's family although on second thoughts maybe not. There's Hilary husband Bill and we all know about their domestic troubles. To the outside world there is a strong thread of dysfunctionality running through both families but I still think Theresa would have plumped for Hilary. And so the frothy soap opera continues. Life has to go on.
Anwyay back at the White House Donald Trump will now be carrying out one of his many election promises. Trump meant what he said at the time. That wall will be built and the people of Mexico must be feeling very hurt and rejected at the moment. What have they done to deserve this treatment? It's at times like this when the countries of the world become very angry and defensive. Mexico, you suspect will not be getting a Christmas card from Trump and the next couple of months could become very messy and complicated.
After the shocking and tumultuous events of 2016 maybe we need to cool down and chill out. Things were far too hectic and frenetic so this could be the right time to settle down and retain our composure. It is still hard to believe that a once bankrupt and corrupt businessman is President of the United States and Boris Johnson is British foreign secretary. But then the unlikely does occasionally happen at times and who knows what lies ahead. Perhaps Phil Collins will come out of retirement. Hold on a minute. He has. Good to see you Phil.
A part of me will insist that I've just dreamt it all and then reality will intrude. On the surface, there is something in the air that tells me that all of the above are in the wrong jobs at the wrong time. There is an enduring air of incompatibility here although the optimists among us may be hoping that they can slap each other on the back, have a good laugh and form lasting friendships.
And yet if we employ commonsense and shrewd decision making it could just work out for the best. Theresa will gently guide Britain out of the European Union with care and attention to detail, Donald will doubtlessly charm everybody he meets up with, smile meaningfully for the cameras and then pinch himself because even he can't believe his luck. Who'd have thought it hey? Donald Trump is the 45th American president. It is set in stone and nobody can take that away from him.
So what about Boris Johnson here in Britain. Boris has now, quite perversely, established himself as a national treasure. The behaviour is now well documented, the persona quite definitely eccentric and ever so slightly incomprehensible. There are facets of Boris's character that challenge any description. And yet Johnson is endearingly old fashioned, conservative with a capital C and very definitely old Etonian.
We all know by now that Johnson's hair looks as if it's done 12 rounds with either of the Klitschko brothers and the suit looks as if it was never tailor made for him. And yet there is something essentially lovable if dandyish about him. The cynics will insist that there is something alarmingly buffoonish about Johnson but anybody who can speak several languages and quote Homer has to be reckoned with.
So there it is ladies and gentlemen. I give you Theresa May, Donald Trump but not Hilary Clinton. Still Hilary maybe it wasn't fated to be. But time is a great healer and who knows the political landscape may look completely different in 10 years time although it's hard to believe so at the moment. Hilary as they say is history but Theresa, Donald and Boris has all the makings of an entertaining chapter in our lives. The characters are wonderfully contrasting but all three should certainly keep us entertained for the next couple of years. I know I'm looking forward to the next intriguing episode. That crystal ball could be quite handy. Keep going 2017.
Tuesday 24 January 2017
The night from hell.
The night from hell.
You really don't want to know how I feel. But then again I'm not sure whether I can either feel, smell, enjoy or appreciate anything. You see my senses have just packed up and left me in a state of medical helplessness. It's hard to remember a time when I've felt quite as unwell for quite a number of years at the beginning of a New Year. It could be that subconsciously I've resigned myself to the fact that this may not clear up until Easter. But then you think rationally and convince yourself that this insufferable viral infection will go and normal health will resume sooner or later.
Now let's flick through my non existent medical dictionary. It can't be flu because I had that a number of years ago and that completely knocked me for six. I was confined to bed for the best part of a month and couldn't move at all. The sweat poured off me in great torrents and the fever reached its highest pitch. So I think it's safe to assume that flu can be safely discounted because all of my limbs, muscles, joints and most of my body just went on strike.
So what can I tell you? Last night my cough from hell came roaring back like an express train and I was just a complete wreck. Every time I tried to lay my head on my pillow my chest began to feel as though a thousand elephants were trampling all over it. Then came the incessant spluttering and hacking that perhaps reminded you of a noisy West End wine bar. Or perhaps I'm allowing my imagination to run away with me.
What followed next was one horrific procession of coughs and more coughs and something that seemed to be attacking both my throat and chest like an invading army. Shortly I would be reeling, rocking and rolling from side to side, desperately clinging onto any semblance of good health and normality. I have to tell you this was a fruitless quest and one that left me in the most uncomfortable state of limbo.
Now I know there are women out there who dismiss men's illnesses as just man flu, an exaggerated condition that may leave you feeling weak and groggy but certainly not serious enough to warrant an ambulance. In a sense women are right and maybe this male affliction is no more than just a nasty cold and nothing even remotely as dramatic than might seem the case.
But I now feel dreadfully washed out and drained, deprived of any energy and so lacking in verve and joie de vivre that the temptation is to go back to bed, wrap myself in blankets, loads of handkerchiefs, Vic chest rub, a good book, a couple of Paracetemol and generally feel sorry for myself. But hang on that's just a counter productive exercise because that'll achieve nothing and besides who cares for a bloke that thinks he's got the worst illness in the world? Men hey!
My family have been wonderfully compassionate and understanding so this is something I can take enormous strength from. Of course my chest feels broken, cracked, racked, battered and bruised. But the rest of my body has lost any desire or willingness to do anything at all. If only they could find a cure for restlessness and self pity because at the moment February seems quite a long way away rather like some distant lighthouse at sea.
Still it could be worse. I could be locked in a room with any politician of your choosing or I could be on the same train as George Galloway. Now that would be the most extreme punishment anybody could conceive of. I suppose I'd give Nigel Farrage a moment or two of profound thought but then he'd probably give me a pint of Guinness and tell me to refrain from damaging comments about Britain from his colleagues.
Anyway I've looked out of the window and that sunshine is just wonderfully gorgeous. It's winter sunshine and not the warm kind that we in Britain normally get for a day or two in any week during the summer. I can feel it streaming through our blinds with an almost irresistible conviction.
The fact is though that it's time for me to dose up with all the requisite medication. There are pills on our coffee table and the kitchen tops and dish washer are alive with every kind of tablet and cream you can think of. My body is slowly but surely mending itself but there is a frustrating indefiniteness about this virus. It just seems to be going on for an eternity. Still it could be far worse. It could be scarlet fever which it isn't because that what would be very worrying and I don't need worry.
No, hopefully this bug, virus, call it what you like, will work its way through my kidneys, liver, stomach and through all those pulmonary glands and ventricles. Yes I've had a word with my own personal doctor and he or she would probably tell me to relax, take it easy, rest and keep taking the tablets because that's the only realistic way you can deal with any medical condition. Oh for those long, warm and summery evenings and white sandy beaches. I'll wake up in a minute. Keep well folks.
You really don't want to know how I feel. But then again I'm not sure whether I can either feel, smell, enjoy or appreciate anything. You see my senses have just packed up and left me in a state of medical helplessness. It's hard to remember a time when I've felt quite as unwell for quite a number of years at the beginning of a New Year. It could be that subconsciously I've resigned myself to the fact that this may not clear up until Easter. But then you think rationally and convince yourself that this insufferable viral infection will go and normal health will resume sooner or later.
Now let's flick through my non existent medical dictionary. It can't be flu because I had that a number of years ago and that completely knocked me for six. I was confined to bed for the best part of a month and couldn't move at all. The sweat poured off me in great torrents and the fever reached its highest pitch. So I think it's safe to assume that flu can be safely discounted because all of my limbs, muscles, joints and most of my body just went on strike.
So what can I tell you? Last night my cough from hell came roaring back like an express train and I was just a complete wreck. Every time I tried to lay my head on my pillow my chest began to feel as though a thousand elephants were trampling all over it. Then came the incessant spluttering and hacking that perhaps reminded you of a noisy West End wine bar. Or perhaps I'm allowing my imagination to run away with me.
What followed next was one horrific procession of coughs and more coughs and something that seemed to be attacking both my throat and chest like an invading army. Shortly I would be reeling, rocking and rolling from side to side, desperately clinging onto any semblance of good health and normality. I have to tell you this was a fruitless quest and one that left me in the most uncomfortable state of limbo.
Now I know there are women out there who dismiss men's illnesses as just man flu, an exaggerated condition that may leave you feeling weak and groggy but certainly not serious enough to warrant an ambulance. In a sense women are right and maybe this male affliction is no more than just a nasty cold and nothing even remotely as dramatic than might seem the case.
But I now feel dreadfully washed out and drained, deprived of any energy and so lacking in verve and joie de vivre that the temptation is to go back to bed, wrap myself in blankets, loads of handkerchiefs, Vic chest rub, a good book, a couple of Paracetemol and generally feel sorry for myself. But hang on that's just a counter productive exercise because that'll achieve nothing and besides who cares for a bloke that thinks he's got the worst illness in the world? Men hey!
My family have been wonderfully compassionate and understanding so this is something I can take enormous strength from. Of course my chest feels broken, cracked, racked, battered and bruised. But the rest of my body has lost any desire or willingness to do anything at all. If only they could find a cure for restlessness and self pity because at the moment February seems quite a long way away rather like some distant lighthouse at sea.
Still it could be worse. I could be locked in a room with any politician of your choosing or I could be on the same train as George Galloway. Now that would be the most extreme punishment anybody could conceive of. I suppose I'd give Nigel Farrage a moment or two of profound thought but then he'd probably give me a pint of Guinness and tell me to refrain from damaging comments about Britain from his colleagues.
Anyway I've looked out of the window and that sunshine is just wonderfully gorgeous. It's winter sunshine and not the warm kind that we in Britain normally get for a day or two in any week during the summer. I can feel it streaming through our blinds with an almost irresistible conviction.
The fact is though that it's time for me to dose up with all the requisite medication. There are pills on our coffee table and the kitchen tops and dish washer are alive with every kind of tablet and cream you can think of. My body is slowly but surely mending itself but there is a frustrating indefiniteness about this virus. It just seems to be going on for an eternity. Still it could be far worse. It could be scarlet fever which it isn't because that what would be very worrying and I don't need worry.
No, hopefully this bug, virus, call it what you like, will work its way through my kidneys, liver, stomach and through all those pulmonary glands and ventricles. Yes I've had a word with my own personal doctor and he or she would probably tell me to relax, take it easy, rest and keep taking the tablets because that's the only realistic way you can deal with any medical condition. Oh for those long, warm and summery evenings and white sandy beaches. I'll wake up in a minute. Keep well folks.
Monday 23 January 2017
My book No Joe Bloggs.
My book No Joe Bloggs
People have often asked me where I found the inspiration to write. It is not easy to write and I have to tell you here and now that both of my recent books No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes were a labour of love. On reflection now No Joe Bloggs was an enormous pleasure to write because I knew exactly what to write. I'd stored away all of those precious memories of childhood, brought to the surface all those childhood emotions and remembered my grandparents and how they fought against adversity.
That's it. No Joe Bloggs was a rags to riches story, the voice of a grandson and my detailed and very affectionate interpretation of my grandparents battle against the Nazis. I'm a grandson of a Holocaust survivors which, in a couple of days will feature prominently in the yearly Jewish memorial across the globe.
I could never even begin to imagine the sheer horror and ruthless human slaughter that unfolded before the disbelieving eyes of the world. No Joe Bloggs is my attempt to heighten awareness of my grandparents and mum's plight. It's a book about my parents, grandparents, fun days, happy days, memorable days and I think hilarious days of long, hot summer days, school days, teenage years, the 1960s and 1970s TV, the epic films from those decades, the music, my favourite pop groups, the radio stations, the singers, the bands, the bond that held us together through thick and thin.
Then there's London, London is featured in a chapter that I think oozes with description, insight, the characteristics that make London tick and an account of my late and wonderful dad's relationship with the London he fell deeply in love with. He loved Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square and the whole dynamic of the capital city.
I know I'm being biased and this is something I make no apology for but No Joe Bloggs is like one huge descriptive outpouring of my life. Of course there were tough times. Of course there were times when I thought my teenage years would never end. Unlike most of the kids of my generation my teenage years were a complete wasteland and in No Joe Bloggs this is illustrated at some length.
At times there is a part of me that feels as though I've irreparably missed out on those classic youth club days of wine, roses and sociability. But then I begin to count my blessings and count my lucky stars. Of course I didn't join in with endless games of table tennis and badminton, drinking teetotal lemonade and generally engaging with the rest of the friends I could have made. Still it's history and in No Joe Bloggs I try to express my private struggles, my frustrations and then the successful conquest of my battle against shyness.
No Joe Bloggs is not only my autobiography but I think its uniquely personal, full of life and verbal vitality. There's my enduring connection with football, nostalgic references to my favourite players such as Pele, Johan Cruyff, George Best and some, I think, very entertaining pen portraits of Arsenal, Chelsea, Leeds United, Ipswich, Spurs, Manchester United and City, Liverpool and Wolves.
There's a fictitious account of my dad and his imaginary journey to Las Vegas with Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett and Sammy Davis Junior and the game of Pool he might have enjoyed with them.
No Joe Bloggs will make you laugh, cry and smile. I think it'll make you feel that life is rich and rewarding. It is, I feel sure heartwarming, positive, uplifting and feelgood. If you want something different on your coffee table then No Joe Bloggs is definitely the book for you.
It's at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Barnes and Noble online. No Joe Bloggs is a literary voyage into the promised land. You've read Lee Child, James Patterson, JK Rowling and if you want to spend some time with the once very quiet lad named Joe Morris from Ilford, Essex then this is the book for you.
People have often asked me where I found the inspiration to write. It is not easy to write and I have to tell you here and now that both of my recent books No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes were a labour of love. On reflection now No Joe Bloggs was an enormous pleasure to write because I knew exactly what to write. I'd stored away all of those precious memories of childhood, brought to the surface all those childhood emotions and remembered my grandparents and how they fought against adversity.
That's it. No Joe Bloggs was a rags to riches story, the voice of a grandson and my detailed and very affectionate interpretation of my grandparents battle against the Nazis. I'm a grandson of a Holocaust survivors which, in a couple of days will feature prominently in the yearly Jewish memorial across the globe.
I could never even begin to imagine the sheer horror and ruthless human slaughter that unfolded before the disbelieving eyes of the world. No Joe Bloggs is my attempt to heighten awareness of my grandparents and mum's plight. It's a book about my parents, grandparents, fun days, happy days, memorable days and I think hilarious days of long, hot summer days, school days, teenage years, the 1960s and 1970s TV, the epic films from those decades, the music, my favourite pop groups, the radio stations, the singers, the bands, the bond that held us together through thick and thin.
Then there's London, London is featured in a chapter that I think oozes with description, insight, the characteristics that make London tick and an account of my late and wonderful dad's relationship with the London he fell deeply in love with. He loved Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square and the whole dynamic of the capital city.
I know I'm being biased and this is something I make no apology for but No Joe Bloggs is like one huge descriptive outpouring of my life. Of course there were tough times. Of course there were times when I thought my teenage years would never end. Unlike most of the kids of my generation my teenage years were a complete wasteland and in No Joe Bloggs this is illustrated at some length.
At times there is a part of me that feels as though I've irreparably missed out on those classic youth club days of wine, roses and sociability. But then I begin to count my blessings and count my lucky stars. Of course I didn't join in with endless games of table tennis and badminton, drinking teetotal lemonade and generally engaging with the rest of the friends I could have made. Still it's history and in No Joe Bloggs I try to express my private struggles, my frustrations and then the successful conquest of my battle against shyness.
No Joe Bloggs is not only my autobiography but I think its uniquely personal, full of life and verbal vitality. There's my enduring connection with football, nostalgic references to my favourite players such as Pele, Johan Cruyff, George Best and some, I think, very entertaining pen portraits of Arsenal, Chelsea, Leeds United, Ipswich, Spurs, Manchester United and City, Liverpool and Wolves.
There's a fictitious account of my dad and his imaginary journey to Las Vegas with Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett and Sammy Davis Junior and the game of Pool he might have enjoyed with them.
No Joe Bloggs will make you laugh, cry and smile. I think it'll make you feel that life is rich and rewarding. It is, I feel sure heartwarming, positive, uplifting and feelgood. If you want something different on your coffee table then No Joe Bloggs is definitely the book for you.
It's at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Barnes and Noble online. No Joe Bloggs is a literary voyage into the promised land. You've read Lee Child, James Patterson, JK Rowling and if you want to spend some time with the once very quiet lad named Joe Morris from Ilford, Essex then this is the book for you.
Sunday 22 January 2017
January- still going and looking forward to February.
January- looking good, bright and healthy but cold at the same time.
Last night I spotted a cherry red sunset with just a hint of apple, orange, and a few flickering shadows of yellow. For a moment I was spellbound. Then a flock of gulls seemed to float and then swoop and then dart. It was almost as if they could read each other's mind. I have to tell you that it was mesmerising and if I could have captured the moment on camera then I certainly would have done so.
Then the sunset just sat very comfortably in the sky waiting patiently for night to wrap a sympathetic arm around it. The temperature suddenly dropped rapidly and last night had to be the coldest night of the year here in the London suburbs. I pulled the blanket over me and that didn't really have the desired effect. January seems to be hanging around ominously and there is a part of me that just longs for the medicinal properties that spring can bring. I think most of Britain has been ill or sick at some point which is unusual because these yearly wintry illnesses normally take the year off. But January has just been relentlessly poorly. My heart goes out to all of our hard working and dedicated doctors. You've all done a wonderful job and the world takes its hat off to you. Isn't life beautiful?
I thought my coughing had gone but then, but wouldn't you know it. It came back again and I must have dropped off to sleep at about 3-30 in the morning. Thankfully it went but, to be honest, night time TV didn't seem the most attractive alternative. In fact there is nothing of any value or significance at all on the TV at that unearthly hour of the morning. All you've got are a tedious sequence of quiz shows that have already been shown at least 25 times and rolling news that just keeps repeating itself ad infinitum.
But I woke up this morning, looked out of the window and found a bright, crisp winter's morning, full of yellow splashes of colour decorating the rooftops and those gulls wheeling and diving across in perpetual motion. It's hard to know where they go but to all outward appearances, they do look pretty smug and satisfied with their lot in life. Occasionally they land on a TV aeriel or maybe an obliging rooftop where they can rest their wings and beaks. I have to say they look tireless and there is an air of effortless authority about them that you can't help but admire. Then they just stare very thoughtfully at the traffic and cars below and then breathe a sigh of relief, perplexed at the scene around them and then grateful that the roles are never likely to be reversed.
Still I think most of us are looking forward to February. January feels as if it's been stuck, trapped and marooned in some remote wilderness. There is a thin layer of ice and frost on the pavements and it's at times like this when your heart goes out to all of our farmers out there. Now there's a thankless task. There they are deep in the country, rounding up their precious sheep and cows with an admirable devotion to duty. Goodness me how cold it must get at the crack of dawn when all they really want to do is turn over in their beds and go back to sleep.
January has coped well with everything that's been thrown at it. Of course it's hard and painstaking but hey we've made it to the end- well almost the end. When it looked as though January just couldn't manage with all those aching ailments you have to believe that February will take one look at us and smile radiantly. January may try to outstay its welcome but February will just shrug its shoulders and guide us safely into calmer waters.
Outside in the streets London is alive and well and wrapped up warmly. There they go wandering around in their thick coats, bobble hats securely perched on their heads, loose scarves rakishly clinging to their neck and a ruck sack faithfully attached to their backs. Now I'm not sure whether this is the latest fashion or fad but ruck sacks and men with beards have made me sit up and take notice. Is this some new kind of cultural phenomenon or are men's faces in need of warm protection when the cold gets to them?
Then they pull up their hoods, pull on their January gloves and protect themselves against the elements and the vagaries of the British winter. Throughout the year I always see runners or joggers in all their most athletic gear. Now those same track- suited runners or joggers are trotting down roads with music in their ears and garish head bands on their forehead. These are strange times indeed. But the more I think about it the less clearer it becomes. Still maybe there is a rhyme and reason to it all and it's all perfectly logical.
So here we are in the dying embers of another late January afternoon. That thick dusting of frost has left very prominent white marks on our pavements and those trees look like knotted and twisted veins. In the distance, one tree looks completely tangled, a cat's cradle of branches that just seem to cry out for that far off distant day at the beginning of Spring. There is a sad complexity about this tree's life because a tree without its comforting cover of green is almost tragic in its poignancy. I almost allowed a tear to drop from my eye but couldn't bring myself to cry. It is just winter being winter.
Finally winter has closure and confirmation. It wrestled indefinitely with those cold blasts and chilly draughts and, at long last. it does seem to have come to terms with its vulnerabilities. It is now early evening and all is very quiet and settled again as well it should be. Even those squirrels have given up on their pursuit of food around here and the joggers should be soaking their feet in some welcome warm water, tucking perhaps into some late Sunday roast. My London suburb has now lost its air of athleticism and the stamina has drained from the now darkening day.
Oh well. It's time to ease off the accelerator, take it easy, slow down and make way for the concluding chapter of the weekend. The churchgoers have shaken the religious hands of their vicar, my Jewish family and friends are looking forward to Tu Bishvat, the festival of trees, in a couple of weeks time and it's time to wind down.
January has got just over a week to carry out its formalities and observe its time-honoured rituals. I expect it'll put out a red carpet for February when it does arrive but not before it's ready. It looks as if patience will have to be a virtue. Hold on I'm sure I can see some daffodils in full bloom. Or perhaps I should just hibernate. Could somebody put the heating on? On second thoughts let's just wait for a while.
Last night I spotted a cherry red sunset with just a hint of apple, orange, and a few flickering shadows of yellow. For a moment I was spellbound. Then a flock of gulls seemed to float and then swoop and then dart. It was almost as if they could read each other's mind. I have to tell you that it was mesmerising and if I could have captured the moment on camera then I certainly would have done so.
Then the sunset just sat very comfortably in the sky waiting patiently for night to wrap a sympathetic arm around it. The temperature suddenly dropped rapidly and last night had to be the coldest night of the year here in the London suburbs. I pulled the blanket over me and that didn't really have the desired effect. January seems to be hanging around ominously and there is a part of me that just longs for the medicinal properties that spring can bring. I think most of Britain has been ill or sick at some point which is unusual because these yearly wintry illnesses normally take the year off. But January has just been relentlessly poorly. My heart goes out to all of our hard working and dedicated doctors. You've all done a wonderful job and the world takes its hat off to you. Isn't life beautiful?
I thought my coughing had gone but then, but wouldn't you know it. It came back again and I must have dropped off to sleep at about 3-30 in the morning. Thankfully it went but, to be honest, night time TV didn't seem the most attractive alternative. In fact there is nothing of any value or significance at all on the TV at that unearthly hour of the morning. All you've got are a tedious sequence of quiz shows that have already been shown at least 25 times and rolling news that just keeps repeating itself ad infinitum.
But I woke up this morning, looked out of the window and found a bright, crisp winter's morning, full of yellow splashes of colour decorating the rooftops and those gulls wheeling and diving across in perpetual motion. It's hard to know where they go but to all outward appearances, they do look pretty smug and satisfied with their lot in life. Occasionally they land on a TV aeriel or maybe an obliging rooftop where they can rest their wings and beaks. I have to say they look tireless and there is an air of effortless authority about them that you can't help but admire. Then they just stare very thoughtfully at the traffic and cars below and then breathe a sigh of relief, perplexed at the scene around them and then grateful that the roles are never likely to be reversed.
Still I think most of us are looking forward to February. January feels as if it's been stuck, trapped and marooned in some remote wilderness. There is a thin layer of ice and frost on the pavements and it's at times like this when your heart goes out to all of our farmers out there. Now there's a thankless task. There they are deep in the country, rounding up their precious sheep and cows with an admirable devotion to duty. Goodness me how cold it must get at the crack of dawn when all they really want to do is turn over in their beds and go back to sleep.
January has coped well with everything that's been thrown at it. Of course it's hard and painstaking but hey we've made it to the end- well almost the end. When it looked as though January just couldn't manage with all those aching ailments you have to believe that February will take one look at us and smile radiantly. January may try to outstay its welcome but February will just shrug its shoulders and guide us safely into calmer waters.
Outside in the streets London is alive and well and wrapped up warmly. There they go wandering around in their thick coats, bobble hats securely perched on their heads, loose scarves rakishly clinging to their neck and a ruck sack faithfully attached to their backs. Now I'm not sure whether this is the latest fashion or fad but ruck sacks and men with beards have made me sit up and take notice. Is this some new kind of cultural phenomenon or are men's faces in need of warm protection when the cold gets to them?
Then they pull up their hoods, pull on their January gloves and protect themselves against the elements and the vagaries of the British winter. Throughout the year I always see runners or joggers in all their most athletic gear. Now those same track- suited runners or joggers are trotting down roads with music in their ears and garish head bands on their forehead. These are strange times indeed. But the more I think about it the less clearer it becomes. Still maybe there is a rhyme and reason to it all and it's all perfectly logical.
So here we are in the dying embers of another late January afternoon. That thick dusting of frost has left very prominent white marks on our pavements and those trees look like knotted and twisted veins. In the distance, one tree looks completely tangled, a cat's cradle of branches that just seem to cry out for that far off distant day at the beginning of Spring. There is a sad complexity about this tree's life because a tree without its comforting cover of green is almost tragic in its poignancy. I almost allowed a tear to drop from my eye but couldn't bring myself to cry. It is just winter being winter.
Finally winter has closure and confirmation. It wrestled indefinitely with those cold blasts and chilly draughts and, at long last. it does seem to have come to terms with its vulnerabilities. It is now early evening and all is very quiet and settled again as well it should be. Even those squirrels have given up on their pursuit of food around here and the joggers should be soaking their feet in some welcome warm water, tucking perhaps into some late Sunday roast. My London suburb has now lost its air of athleticism and the stamina has drained from the now darkening day.
Oh well. It's time to ease off the accelerator, take it easy, slow down and make way for the concluding chapter of the weekend. The churchgoers have shaken the religious hands of their vicar, my Jewish family and friends are looking forward to Tu Bishvat, the festival of trees, in a couple of weeks time and it's time to wind down.
January has got just over a week to carry out its formalities and observe its time-honoured rituals. I expect it'll put out a red carpet for February when it does arrive but not before it's ready. It looks as if patience will have to be a virtue. Hold on I'm sure I can see some daffodils in full bloom. Or perhaps I should just hibernate. Could somebody put the heating on? On second thoughts let's just wait for a while.
Friday 20 January 2017
Donald rules the American roost and a nation holds its breath.
Donald rules the American roost- a nation hold its breath.
There are days in our lives when we know that the fate of the world hinges on just one event. We look back into the distant mists of time and wonder whether things might have been any different. We can never know what the future will hold because none of us are crystal ball gazers with just a hint of foresight.
Today Donald Trump becomes the new President of the United States and when the world looks at itself in the mirror it may find that it just can't get any worse. Now let's sit down and take stock of what has just happened. America has just appointed one of the most controversial, dangerously opinionated, dogmatic and fiercely businesslike of Presidents. They now have at the very highest level of the political hiearchy, a man who, seemingly, hasn't a clue what he's doing and may have to guess and improvise as he goes along.
These are significant moments in world political history when nothing seems real and when the only things that seem to make any sense are those we take for granted such as boiling kettles for tea and coffee, waking up in the morning, and turning on either the radio or TV. These are our daily certainties but now it all begins to look slightly lopsided and not quite what the historians had in mind.
The truth though of course that Donald Trump has taken the oath as the next American president and reality will have to be suspended just for a while. Now though, there is a sobering realisation that what might have seemed totally unimaginable is no longer the case. The American people have voted for a man whose recent statements may have to be seen in an entirely different perspective. It's time to get down to business and blow away all those terrible misperceptions.
Personally I think Trump, in essence, will have to keep his private feelings to himself or just water them down for the long term benefit of his country. All of that rabble rousing hot air about walls and Mexico and that deeply offensive comment about a certain religion will just have to be buried in some compost heap of ill advised comments. But none of us know what we might get with Trump so our assessments of the man will have to be completely objective. Surely the man can't be dismissed as some oddball figure with a penchant for putting his foot in the wrong place.
As a country America will have to hold their breath for quite some time. We're dealing with a man who knows nothing at all about important political issues, is seemingly ill equipped to deal with matters that are just beyond his capability and hoping that things will just fall into place. There is a sense that Trump will have to use all his powers of improvisation to conjure up new plans and initiatives off the top of his head.
And yet in the cold light of the day you have to believe that deep within the Trump persona there is a Ronald Reagan just desperate to get out. Now Reagan also looked, to all outward appearances, slightly perplexed and apprehensive when things went wrong. We know he used to be a Hollywood film star and everything that comes with that package and here is where the comparison with Trump probably falls down.
But both Reagan and Trump seem to belong in the same category. Trump is no-nonsense, speaks straight from the hip and, let's be honest about this one, is a smouldering grenade ready to go off. He seems to rant hysterically about anything and everything when it's quite clearly inappropriate. But whereas Reagan was the governor of California, Trump knew only the fresh smell of wealth and big business enterprise. Of course Trump is smart, presentable and respectable but then so were Ford, Nixon, Carter, Reagan. Bush and Clinton and look what happened to them?
Trump looks trustworthy but you do have reservations about his manner and behaviour. Maybe he needs some private counselling or intensive media training, perhaps learn the art of diplomacy. It has to be easy surely. What can be so hard about saying the right thing at the right time? There is indeed a time and place for everything and Trump's advisors will certainly have their work cut out.
To be honest this is all very much guesswork and simple hope at the moment. It's rather like inviting some international head of state to Britain and hoping against hope that they pick up the knife and fork the right way at Buckingham Palace. This is definitely a case of protocol and etiquette and Trump must feel like a teenager on his first day at secondary or grammar school. The uniform is spotless but underneath the surface that teenager must be showing every sign of panic and nervousness.
For the whole world these are tricky and challenging times, epic and momentous quite possibly but poised to go either one way or other. After all the fuss, hullabaloo and explosive campaigning for the last couple of years Trump may have to forget about his past bluster, hot air and joky banter. It's time to roll his sleeves up and knuckle down to the serious stuff in the White House. This, after all, is the real thing, the real deal and what might have smacked of showbiz superficiality in the past has to be pushed to one side and buried once and for all.
Trump, as has been well documented, is very cool, streetwise, savvy and much cleverer than we may have given him credit for. There is a calm and restraint about him now that may not have been readily apparent before. Of course those remarks were just preposterous propaganda designed to get himself into the White House. You and I know they were very intelligently pitched soundbites that were carefully measured and craftily calculated.
In retrospect whatever came out of the Trump mouth seemed the most remarkable publicity stunt since the beginning of time. We were never likely to fall for all those hideously nonsensical promises, those quite obviously provocative remarks that couldn't have done him any favours at all but served their purpose perfectly. But you have to hand it our Donald. He succeeded in throwing the thickest smoke screen over us all, deceived us ever so briefly and, once the dust had settled, commonsense and reason are beginning to show themselves.
Behind all the froth and cosmetic war paint, it does seem that Trump is a man who will sit down at that huge desk at the White House, clear out all the old documents and papers that are probably gathering dust and then try to figure out where to go from here. This is a learning curve for everybody and the probability is that we won't really be able to form a considered judgement on Trump for quite a while. He is a work in progress and the jury has to be out.
But we must allow this gentleman to sort himself out, find out what goes where and then try to formulate long term projects without upsetting anybody. At the moment this is a complex mechanism that may take a while to get right. There are wires and components that have been left all over the place, the curtains haven't been cleaned for ages and those lights look terrible over there. Oh and don't forget to put that table and the sofa over there.
Trump will have to, quite metaphorically, find his feet sooner rather than later. We know that there lurks a steely determination within the man that knows no bounds. But the doubts hover and the questions persist and will not go away. Will Trump be the proverbial bull in a china shop and turn convention on its head? Or will he listen to the people who he trusts and kept the faith in. We are all in the dark and there is no clarity about anything. Suffice to it to say that America will look to the skies and dream about miracles. For indeed they do come true.
This morning Washington welcomed everybody to a new dawn and age. The capital city of America looked bright, cold but privately optimistic. There are the obvious anxieties and maybe a private anguish, an America that is understandably trembling and quivering but perhaps an America who just want to adopt the wise words of Martin Luther King. America has to dream because if it doesn't then this could be the lull before the storm. In America we salute you.
There are days in our lives when we know that the fate of the world hinges on just one event. We look back into the distant mists of time and wonder whether things might have been any different. We can never know what the future will hold because none of us are crystal ball gazers with just a hint of foresight.
Today Donald Trump becomes the new President of the United States and when the world looks at itself in the mirror it may find that it just can't get any worse. Now let's sit down and take stock of what has just happened. America has just appointed one of the most controversial, dangerously opinionated, dogmatic and fiercely businesslike of Presidents. They now have at the very highest level of the political hiearchy, a man who, seemingly, hasn't a clue what he's doing and may have to guess and improvise as he goes along.
These are significant moments in world political history when nothing seems real and when the only things that seem to make any sense are those we take for granted such as boiling kettles for tea and coffee, waking up in the morning, and turning on either the radio or TV. These are our daily certainties but now it all begins to look slightly lopsided and not quite what the historians had in mind.
The truth though of course that Donald Trump has taken the oath as the next American president and reality will have to be suspended just for a while. Now though, there is a sobering realisation that what might have seemed totally unimaginable is no longer the case. The American people have voted for a man whose recent statements may have to be seen in an entirely different perspective. It's time to get down to business and blow away all those terrible misperceptions.
Personally I think Trump, in essence, will have to keep his private feelings to himself or just water them down for the long term benefit of his country. All of that rabble rousing hot air about walls and Mexico and that deeply offensive comment about a certain religion will just have to be buried in some compost heap of ill advised comments. But none of us know what we might get with Trump so our assessments of the man will have to be completely objective. Surely the man can't be dismissed as some oddball figure with a penchant for putting his foot in the wrong place.
As a country America will have to hold their breath for quite some time. We're dealing with a man who knows nothing at all about important political issues, is seemingly ill equipped to deal with matters that are just beyond his capability and hoping that things will just fall into place. There is a sense that Trump will have to use all his powers of improvisation to conjure up new plans and initiatives off the top of his head.
And yet in the cold light of the day you have to believe that deep within the Trump persona there is a Ronald Reagan just desperate to get out. Now Reagan also looked, to all outward appearances, slightly perplexed and apprehensive when things went wrong. We know he used to be a Hollywood film star and everything that comes with that package and here is where the comparison with Trump probably falls down.
But both Reagan and Trump seem to belong in the same category. Trump is no-nonsense, speaks straight from the hip and, let's be honest about this one, is a smouldering grenade ready to go off. He seems to rant hysterically about anything and everything when it's quite clearly inappropriate. But whereas Reagan was the governor of California, Trump knew only the fresh smell of wealth and big business enterprise. Of course Trump is smart, presentable and respectable but then so were Ford, Nixon, Carter, Reagan. Bush and Clinton and look what happened to them?
Trump looks trustworthy but you do have reservations about his manner and behaviour. Maybe he needs some private counselling or intensive media training, perhaps learn the art of diplomacy. It has to be easy surely. What can be so hard about saying the right thing at the right time? There is indeed a time and place for everything and Trump's advisors will certainly have their work cut out.
To be honest this is all very much guesswork and simple hope at the moment. It's rather like inviting some international head of state to Britain and hoping against hope that they pick up the knife and fork the right way at Buckingham Palace. This is definitely a case of protocol and etiquette and Trump must feel like a teenager on his first day at secondary or grammar school. The uniform is spotless but underneath the surface that teenager must be showing every sign of panic and nervousness.
For the whole world these are tricky and challenging times, epic and momentous quite possibly but poised to go either one way or other. After all the fuss, hullabaloo and explosive campaigning for the last couple of years Trump may have to forget about his past bluster, hot air and joky banter. It's time to roll his sleeves up and knuckle down to the serious stuff in the White House. This, after all, is the real thing, the real deal and what might have smacked of showbiz superficiality in the past has to be pushed to one side and buried once and for all.
Trump, as has been well documented, is very cool, streetwise, savvy and much cleverer than we may have given him credit for. There is a calm and restraint about him now that may not have been readily apparent before. Of course those remarks were just preposterous propaganda designed to get himself into the White House. You and I know they were very intelligently pitched soundbites that were carefully measured and craftily calculated.
In retrospect whatever came out of the Trump mouth seemed the most remarkable publicity stunt since the beginning of time. We were never likely to fall for all those hideously nonsensical promises, those quite obviously provocative remarks that couldn't have done him any favours at all but served their purpose perfectly. But you have to hand it our Donald. He succeeded in throwing the thickest smoke screen over us all, deceived us ever so briefly and, once the dust had settled, commonsense and reason are beginning to show themselves.
Behind all the froth and cosmetic war paint, it does seem that Trump is a man who will sit down at that huge desk at the White House, clear out all the old documents and papers that are probably gathering dust and then try to figure out where to go from here. This is a learning curve for everybody and the probability is that we won't really be able to form a considered judgement on Trump for quite a while. He is a work in progress and the jury has to be out.
But we must allow this gentleman to sort himself out, find out what goes where and then try to formulate long term projects without upsetting anybody. At the moment this is a complex mechanism that may take a while to get right. There are wires and components that have been left all over the place, the curtains haven't been cleaned for ages and those lights look terrible over there. Oh and don't forget to put that table and the sofa over there.
Trump will have to, quite metaphorically, find his feet sooner rather than later. We know that there lurks a steely determination within the man that knows no bounds. But the doubts hover and the questions persist and will not go away. Will Trump be the proverbial bull in a china shop and turn convention on its head? Or will he listen to the people who he trusts and kept the faith in. We are all in the dark and there is no clarity about anything. Suffice to it to say that America will look to the skies and dream about miracles. For indeed they do come true.
This morning Washington welcomed everybody to a new dawn and age. The capital city of America looked bright, cold but privately optimistic. There are the obvious anxieties and maybe a private anguish, an America that is understandably trembling and quivering but perhaps an America who just want to adopt the wise words of Martin Luther King. America has to dream because if it doesn't then this could be the lull before the storm. In America we salute you.
Wednesday 18 January 2017
January slowly inches its way towards lighter evenings
January slowly inches its way towards lighter evenings.
It may not seem like it at the moment but January is ever so slowly inching its way towards those lighter, brighter days of late Spring. But I have to tell you it may need some persuasion. There is a reluctance here to move away from the greyness and darkness of mid January but I think we can reach an agreement somewhere. Before you know it the snowdrops and tulips will make their first appearance of the New Year and winter will just seem a malicious rumour that was totally untrue.
Today I took my first steps on the road to recovery from my viral infection. A long, invigorating walk normally does the trick and in this case I think it was a five card trick. In a sense it was more of a brisk stroll rather than an exhausting sprint along Southend beach. Now I have to tell you that Southend, in the depths of winter, is not to be recommended. Years ago my family and friends did try it and this was neither pleasant nor salubrious.
It was a lazy Sunday afternoon in January and for some crazy reason my parents and their friends were gripped by an unreasonable urge to drive down to Southend. The memories may be vague and totally unreliable now but I can clearly remember stopping at one of Southend's famous and well appointed cafes for an afternoon tea. It was pitch black and at roughly 4pm in the afternoon it felt more like midnight. In fact I'm sure I saw somebody in their pyjamas nipping out for a pint of milk. The fact was that it was a freezing afternoon on the Essex Riviera and it was the kind of forgettable experience that some of us have from time to time.
Still I do feel much better. This lunchtime a group of friends and I took ourselves down to a lovely lakeside retreat and I, for one, simply revelled in the new found freedom and luxury of good health. Slowly but surely we strolled along a road in what can only be described as slow motion. In fact had we been walking any slower the chances are that a tortoise might have overtaken us. Nonetheless it was good to be alive, enjoyable as well as being emotionally, spiritually and mentally rewarding.
This had been my first chance to get out to the great outdoors without feeling awful and dreadful. The last week has been a medical irritation for me. I've coughed for my country, my body has felt like a broken articulated lorry stuck in the heaviest of traffic jams or a long tail back and I have to be honest it was beginning to get me down. But onwards and upwards. I refuse to be deterred and I will be positive. It's time to get rid of that dust and rust and venture forward but negativity keeps intruding and I mustn't let it.
You could call it sluggishness or lassitude but to me it wasn't the best feeling in the world. Somehow my body felt as if it had been hi-jacked, stolen, kidnapped or been brutally court martialled, held hostage by time. One minute you're sitting in the warmth and comfort watching Strictly and the next you feel as though as your whole being has been sucked out of you. You keep hoping that the wretched sensation will just pass through you like that articulated lorry in the Dartford tunnel and what happens next? You run out of petrol, faltering and spluttering and then just grinding to a halt before just subsiding and trying unsuccessfully to get to bed. Cough, cough, cough, sniffle and sniffle. How infuriating.
Do you know what? I think January is just a very arthritic month. At the beginning of the month you look out over the harbour which is what January basically reminds me of anyway and try to make out those first thrilling signs of Spring in the air. At the moment the clouds have got a slightly charcoal colour about them and then at times they resemble those log- fires you normally find in country pubs.
But January is passing along lumberingly at times but then for one glorious moment at about 4-30 this afternoon it almost felt as if somebody had turned the lights back on. The sky had that soft, velvety, smooth and idyllic tint that felt it as if the seasons were deep in thought. There was something delightfully go- ahead, promising and progressive about January that could have been mistaken for March if only for a couple of minutes.
Suddenly there was a sense that at some point January will throw off its wintry pullovers and coats and then fling its wintry inhibitions into the bin. I think of this time of the year as that special stage of development and transition. There is a peachy pink complexion in the early evening sky that could almost lend itself to a Keats poem. Then the black and grey patches of cloud seem to spread out in the most orderly of formations and January begins to feel and look like January again. The status quo has been resumed and what felt right to us is quite definitely right.
Anyway back to my trip to a lakeside retreat somewhere in England. It was peaceful, it was good to be alive and after that never ending Christmas break I could actually smell the fresh air again. So what did we do exactly? Well we gazed across a rural pond with the afternoon sunlight dancing and glancing across an icy stretch of water, a haven of tranquillity completely unspoilt and the afternoon was ours.
Then we were faced by huge families of ducks, swans, geese, pigeons and vast communities of every conceivable species of birdlife you could think of. It was deeply moving and very attractive. We all love nature and you felt the most privileged of all spectators. One minute the birds must have felt very neglected and left out and the next we were there to spend just a while with them. Suddenly the whole atmosphere and dynamic of the day had been turned on its head within a space of seconds. What must have been going through those birds minds as we surveyed this heavenly watercoloured canvas?
Were those birds worried about the immediate future of Donald Trump as the next President of the United States? Did they give any consideration to Theresa May agonising over the EU and the UK's hardline stance on Europe? Do you ever get the impression that one day Britain will just jump onto a plane one day and just fly off to the other side of the world in a huff? There is a real feeling of anger and vitriolic bitterness that is most distressing. Maybe the whole world will just give up on each other in a fit of rage. If only Henry Kissinger could come out of retirement. He'd sort everybody out.
If I'm not mistaken there goes Angela Merkel of Germany and she's not happy you know. In fact she very rarely breaks into gales of laughter and that face could ruin anybody's day. She looks almost permanently offended and one day she'll probably lose her temper completely and we'll all be in trouble. Anway Europe is looking at Britain with a rather sinister grin and the rest of the world probably chuckles with a gentle, detached amusement. Ho Ho? Look at Britain. Now I know you haven't a great deal of time for Europe but can you please hurry up this whole process. Talk about procrastination. These delaying tactics will get you nowhere.
In fact you can probably cut the tension with a knife. Goodness only knows what those birds must have thought. This is turning into a needle match and there is something uncomfortably poisonous in the air. Brussels can almost smell the blood. High ranking EU officials are beginning to lose their patience and to be honest this is personal and vindictive. Deep in the official corridors of Brussels there are threatening rumbles of discontent and at some point it does seem inevitable that something or somebody will give. I've never been a betting man but, if I were, my money would be on a goal-less draw, or a replay on some neutral ground. Don't you just hate boring goal-less draws? Bring on the cabaret.
There is a festering grudge that shows no sign of healing and sooner or later somebody may just get hurt or bruised. This is no time for childish intolerance or one upmanship. It is safe to assume that nobody is better or worse in this private war of words and we may order you to go to your rooms to just cool off. It is insufferable and I've never seen anything like it.
Perhaps the birds are thinking about holding their own private EU referendum. This afternoon, in a quiet corner of England, a whole flock of birds gathered by an equally as quiet pond and pondered the meaning of life. I felt a definite chemistry and friendship because one of the birds came right up to me and seemed to smile at me very warmly and effusively. Then it all happened. All was a flutter of wings, a dramatic frisson of feathers. The ducks turned into trade union leaders, very stern and militant as if refusing to move off the picket line. Then they all marched off together angry, seething and determined to create a commotion. I think they'd made their point.
Suddenly otherwise placid birds huddled around us like a Premier League football team in England, then flapping wildly as if rightly outraged. It was all very hush hush and secretive. I think they were annoyed at those hard Brexiteers who were still complaining for no apparent reason. Or maybe the soft Brexiteers were just grumbling at Vladimir Putin and his grumpy old Russian gang? It was hard to tell but I'm sure one of those birds is really upset about Donald Trump. You could sense its unease because it kept asking me about Hilary Clinton and why she'd been so humiliatingly wiped out in the American election. Some of them were, it seemed. inconsolable. Consolation could not be found for our feathered friends and excuses were thin on the icy ground.
Anway our afternoon in some beautifully bucolic corner of Southern England had ended and we all retired for a spot of lunch. I kept thinking about those poor disenchanted birds crowding around us ravenously for several loaves of bread. Some looked furious and others simply resigned to their fate in life.
It is hard to know how birds feel on some mid January afternoon. Their mood is very guarded and defensive. Still shortly it'll be February and a whole new set of feelings will descend on the wildlife of Britain. It is hoped that any discussion will not mention the EU and Brexit. If I've heard those words once I've heard them a million times. It is as almost as wearisome as a House of Commons argument. Perhaps they'll change the record one day. I can but hope.
It may not seem like it at the moment but January is ever so slowly inching its way towards those lighter, brighter days of late Spring. But I have to tell you it may need some persuasion. There is a reluctance here to move away from the greyness and darkness of mid January but I think we can reach an agreement somewhere. Before you know it the snowdrops and tulips will make their first appearance of the New Year and winter will just seem a malicious rumour that was totally untrue.
Today I took my first steps on the road to recovery from my viral infection. A long, invigorating walk normally does the trick and in this case I think it was a five card trick. In a sense it was more of a brisk stroll rather than an exhausting sprint along Southend beach. Now I have to tell you that Southend, in the depths of winter, is not to be recommended. Years ago my family and friends did try it and this was neither pleasant nor salubrious.
It was a lazy Sunday afternoon in January and for some crazy reason my parents and their friends were gripped by an unreasonable urge to drive down to Southend. The memories may be vague and totally unreliable now but I can clearly remember stopping at one of Southend's famous and well appointed cafes for an afternoon tea. It was pitch black and at roughly 4pm in the afternoon it felt more like midnight. In fact I'm sure I saw somebody in their pyjamas nipping out for a pint of milk. The fact was that it was a freezing afternoon on the Essex Riviera and it was the kind of forgettable experience that some of us have from time to time.
Still I do feel much better. This lunchtime a group of friends and I took ourselves down to a lovely lakeside retreat and I, for one, simply revelled in the new found freedom and luxury of good health. Slowly but surely we strolled along a road in what can only be described as slow motion. In fact had we been walking any slower the chances are that a tortoise might have overtaken us. Nonetheless it was good to be alive, enjoyable as well as being emotionally, spiritually and mentally rewarding.
This had been my first chance to get out to the great outdoors without feeling awful and dreadful. The last week has been a medical irritation for me. I've coughed for my country, my body has felt like a broken articulated lorry stuck in the heaviest of traffic jams or a long tail back and I have to be honest it was beginning to get me down. But onwards and upwards. I refuse to be deterred and I will be positive. It's time to get rid of that dust and rust and venture forward but negativity keeps intruding and I mustn't let it.
You could call it sluggishness or lassitude but to me it wasn't the best feeling in the world. Somehow my body felt as if it had been hi-jacked, stolen, kidnapped or been brutally court martialled, held hostage by time. One minute you're sitting in the warmth and comfort watching Strictly and the next you feel as though as your whole being has been sucked out of you. You keep hoping that the wretched sensation will just pass through you like that articulated lorry in the Dartford tunnel and what happens next? You run out of petrol, faltering and spluttering and then just grinding to a halt before just subsiding and trying unsuccessfully to get to bed. Cough, cough, cough, sniffle and sniffle. How infuriating.
Do you know what? I think January is just a very arthritic month. At the beginning of the month you look out over the harbour which is what January basically reminds me of anyway and try to make out those first thrilling signs of Spring in the air. At the moment the clouds have got a slightly charcoal colour about them and then at times they resemble those log- fires you normally find in country pubs.
But January is passing along lumberingly at times but then for one glorious moment at about 4-30 this afternoon it almost felt as if somebody had turned the lights back on. The sky had that soft, velvety, smooth and idyllic tint that felt it as if the seasons were deep in thought. There was something delightfully go- ahead, promising and progressive about January that could have been mistaken for March if only for a couple of minutes.
Suddenly there was a sense that at some point January will throw off its wintry pullovers and coats and then fling its wintry inhibitions into the bin. I think of this time of the year as that special stage of development and transition. There is a peachy pink complexion in the early evening sky that could almost lend itself to a Keats poem. Then the black and grey patches of cloud seem to spread out in the most orderly of formations and January begins to feel and look like January again. The status quo has been resumed and what felt right to us is quite definitely right.
Anyway back to my trip to a lakeside retreat somewhere in England. It was peaceful, it was good to be alive and after that never ending Christmas break I could actually smell the fresh air again. So what did we do exactly? Well we gazed across a rural pond with the afternoon sunlight dancing and glancing across an icy stretch of water, a haven of tranquillity completely unspoilt and the afternoon was ours.
Then we were faced by huge families of ducks, swans, geese, pigeons and vast communities of every conceivable species of birdlife you could think of. It was deeply moving and very attractive. We all love nature and you felt the most privileged of all spectators. One minute the birds must have felt very neglected and left out and the next we were there to spend just a while with them. Suddenly the whole atmosphere and dynamic of the day had been turned on its head within a space of seconds. What must have been going through those birds minds as we surveyed this heavenly watercoloured canvas?
Were those birds worried about the immediate future of Donald Trump as the next President of the United States? Did they give any consideration to Theresa May agonising over the EU and the UK's hardline stance on Europe? Do you ever get the impression that one day Britain will just jump onto a plane one day and just fly off to the other side of the world in a huff? There is a real feeling of anger and vitriolic bitterness that is most distressing. Maybe the whole world will just give up on each other in a fit of rage. If only Henry Kissinger could come out of retirement. He'd sort everybody out.
If I'm not mistaken there goes Angela Merkel of Germany and she's not happy you know. In fact she very rarely breaks into gales of laughter and that face could ruin anybody's day. She looks almost permanently offended and one day she'll probably lose her temper completely and we'll all be in trouble. Anway Europe is looking at Britain with a rather sinister grin and the rest of the world probably chuckles with a gentle, detached amusement. Ho Ho? Look at Britain. Now I know you haven't a great deal of time for Europe but can you please hurry up this whole process. Talk about procrastination. These delaying tactics will get you nowhere.
In fact you can probably cut the tension with a knife. Goodness only knows what those birds must have thought. This is turning into a needle match and there is something uncomfortably poisonous in the air. Brussels can almost smell the blood. High ranking EU officials are beginning to lose their patience and to be honest this is personal and vindictive. Deep in the official corridors of Brussels there are threatening rumbles of discontent and at some point it does seem inevitable that something or somebody will give. I've never been a betting man but, if I were, my money would be on a goal-less draw, or a replay on some neutral ground. Don't you just hate boring goal-less draws? Bring on the cabaret.
There is a festering grudge that shows no sign of healing and sooner or later somebody may just get hurt or bruised. This is no time for childish intolerance or one upmanship. It is safe to assume that nobody is better or worse in this private war of words and we may order you to go to your rooms to just cool off. It is insufferable and I've never seen anything like it.
Perhaps the birds are thinking about holding their own private EU referendum. This afternoon, in a quiet corner of England, a whole flock of birds gathered by an equally as quiet pond and pondered the meaning of life. I felt a definite chemistry and friendship because one of the birds came right up to me and seemed to smile at me very warmly and effusively. Then it all happened. All was a flutter of wings, a dramatic frisson of feathers. The ducks turned into trade union leaders, very stern and militant as if refusing to move off the picket line. Then they all marched off together angry, seething and determined to create a commotion. I think they'd made their point.
Suddenly otherwise placid birds huddled around us like a Premier League football team in England, then flapping wildly as if rightly outraged. It was all very hush hush and secretive. I think they were annoyed at those hard Brexiteers who were still complaining for no apparent reason. Or maybe the soft Brexiteers were just grumbling at Vladimir Putin and his grumpy old Russian gang? It was hard to tell but I'm sure one of those birds is really upset about Donald Trump. You could sense its unease because it kept asking me about Hilary Clinton and why she'd been so humiliatingly wiped out in the American election. Some of them were, it seemed. inconsolable. Consolation could not be found for our feathered friends and excuses were thin on the icy ground.
Anway our afternoon in some beautifully bucolic corner of Southern England had ended and we all retired for a spot of lunch. I kept thinking about those poor disenchanted birds crowding around us ravenously for several loaves of bread. Some looked furious and others simply resigned to their fate in life.
It is hard to know how birds feel on some mid January afternoon. Their mood is very guarded and defensive. Still shortly it'll be February and a whole new set of feelings will descend on the wildlife of Britain. It is hoped that any discussion will not mention the EU and Brexit. If I've heard those words once I've heard them a million times. It is as almost as wearisome as a House of Commons argument. Perhaps they'll change the record one day. I can but hope.
Monday 16 January 2017
Oh no the lights have gone off at Piccadilly Circus.
The lights have gone off at Piccadilly Circus.
Oh no the lights have gone off at Piccadilly Circus. Will life ever be the same? Will London ever be the same again. I know it's only a temporary measure but how we are ever going to survive without those flashing, winking, blinking, dancing and singing lights that have always provided the West End with so much illumination and character? Can there be anything as remotely uplifting and morale boosting as that festival of colour, that riotous explosion of reds, greens, blues and whites? For decades the lights at Piccadilly Circus have been our window on the world, that identification with the very best that the West End can offer.
The lights at Piccadilly Circus are a perfect representation of London life and the way London sees itself. Without those lights London would not only be extremely dull and essentially depressing it would plunge the whole of the metropolis into a very demoralising darkness. Most Londoners and tourists look up at those magical brand names and shout out our recognition of the London we've always loved.
For as long as I can remember Piccadilly Circus always meant Coca Cola, that brilliantly red glowing symbol of my childhood and your childhood. There were the jagged lines that zig zagged around those bold Coca Cola letters, the images playing with our subliminal emotions. But predominantly Coca Cola was always unmistakably red. For years the red lights would flash and flicker, tease and tantalise with their playful pronouncements.
As you came out of Piccadilly Circus Tube station you would become immediately aware of just how much London enjoyed the sweetest fragrance of Coca Cola. Throughout the 1960s,70s and 80s your senses would be seduced by something that could have been bottled and certainly was. The lights in Piccadilly have always been alive and well, powerful testaments to the London Electricity Board and generating a message that was much more profound than any of us could ever have imagined. But Coca Cola conveyed an air of rich celebration, of raw energy and quite literally, a colourful exuberance.
I'm not sure how Londoners will cope without its lights but we'll see it through. We'll tolerate this unfortunate but slight inconvenience because maybe we've always tolerated setbacks. After all during the Second World War Piccadilly turned into a sorrowful land of darkness and grief. But now over 70 years later the twin forces of technology and modernisation have combined to leave Piccadilly in another dark age.
It does seem that without the Piccadilly Circus lights London has lost its soul, its motivation, its nerve, its reason for existence. How the lights have re-assured us, made us feel good about ourselves and others around. There is a heart beat and healthy vibrancy about the lights that London just can't get enough of. Maybe the great writers have spent many an hour, toying with different superlatives and yet still unable to put their finger on it.
It's the way they glitter and shimmer on those wet, wintry evenings, shivering in puddles and then suddenly spinning and whirling incessantly in the natural glow of a late November evening. There is a wonderful urgency and fantasy about the whole experience that can never be truly matched anywhere.
I could go on endless lyrical raptures about Piccadilly Circus but I think it probably knows about its fascinating light show, its sheer advertising bravura, its reckless adventure into the wondrous world of new horizons and ground breaking innovations. Maybe this is why we first became hooked on the Piccadilly Circus lights all those years ago when London, during the 1960s, just exploded and the rest of the world gazed at us with endless astonishment.
We all know about Coca Cola but how could we forget Bolivar, Timex, Schweppes, Spearmint gum and a whole variety of nods to rampant commercialism and sponsorship? At times you were almost swept along this by this tidal wave of temptation and in your face visibility that rocked you back on your feet with a supernatural force.
As a child my late and wonderful dad would take enormous pleasure from the Piccadilly Circus lights. In many ways it was rather like my gentle introduction to the West End. This was a private invitation to a world that had hitherto felt very special but at the same time enclosed. Suddenly wintry Sunday evenings became supersonic and jet propelled, galvanised into life.
So now the Piccadilly lights have been switched off and it is difficult to imagine how we'll manage with this loss, this detachment from something we'd become accustomed to, a dramatic departure from a London that was deeply lovable. How are we ever going to cope without the Piccadilly Circus lights. It'll be like a Manchester City without a Sergio Aguero, tennis without Sir Andy Murray, cricket without its finest batsmen and rugby without its most aggressive prop forwards. Simply unthinkable.
It is time to count down to the day when those lovely old lights are switched back on and London salutes to its homage to electricity. How I'll miss the Piccadilly Circus lights. I'm sure you'll all miss them as much as I do. The rumour is that it'll be this autumn. I know Eros is counting down the days. Let there be light.
Oh no the lights have gone off at Piccadilly Circus. Will life ever be the same? Will London ever be the same again. I know it's only a temporary measure but how we are ever going to survive without those flashing, winking, blinking, dancing and singing lights that have always provided the West End with so much illumination and character? Can there be anything as remotely uplifting and morale boosting as that festival of colour, that riotous explosion of reds, greens, blues and whites? For decades the lights at Piccadilly Circus have been our window on the world, that identification with the very best that the West End can offer.
The lights at Piccadilly Circus are a perfect representation of London life and the way London sees itself. Without those lights London would not only be extremely dull and essentially depressing it would plunge the whole of the metropolis into a very demoralising darkness. Most Londoners and tourists look up at those magical brand names and shout out our recognition of the London we've always loved.
For as long as I can remember Piccadilly Circus always meant Coca Cola, that brilliantly red glowing symbol of my childhood and your childhood. There were the jagged lines that zig zagged around those bold Coca Cola letters, the images playing with our subliminal emotions. But predominantly Coca Cola was always unmistakably red. For years the red lights would flash and flicker, tease and tantalise with their playful pronouncements.
As you came out of Piccadilly Circus Tube station you would become immediately aware of just how much London enjoyed the sweetest fragrance of Coca Cola. Throughout the 1960s,70s and 80s your senses would be seduced by something that could have been bottled and certainly was. The lights in Piccadilly have always been alive and well, powerful testaments to the London Electricity Board and generating a message that was much more profound than any of us could ever have imagined. But Coca Cola conveyed an air of rich celebration, of raw energy and quite literally, a colourful exuberance.
I'm not sure how Londoners will cope without its lights but we'll see it through. We'll tolerate this unfortunate but slight inconvenience because maybe we've always tolerated setbacks. After all during the Second World War Piccadilly turned into a sorrowful land of darkness and grief. But now over 70 years later the twin forces of technology and modernisation have combined to leave Piccadilly in another dark age.
It does seem that without the Piccadilly Circus lights London has lost its soul, its motivation, its nerve, its reason for existence. How the lights have re-assured us, made us feel good about ourselves and others around. There is a heart beat and healthy vibrancy about the lights that London just can't get enough of. Maybe the great writers have spent many an hour, toying with different superlatives and yet still unable to put their finger on it.
It's the way they glitter and shimmer on those wet, wintry evenings, shivering in puddles and then suddenly spinning and whirling incessantly in the natural glow of a late November evening. There is a wonderful urgency and fantasy about the whole experience that can never be truly matched anywhere.
I could go on endless lyrical raptures about Piccadilly Circus but I think it probably knows about its fascinating light show, its sheer advertising bravura, its reckless adventure into the wondrous world of new horizons and ground breaking innovations. Maybe this is why we first became hooked on the Piccadilly Circus lights all those years ago when London, during the 1960s, just exploded and the rest of the world gazed at us with endless astonishment.
We all know about Coca Cola but how could we forget Bolivar, Timex, Schweppes, Spearmint gum and a whole variety of nods to rampant commercialism and sponsorship? At times you were almost swept along this by this tidal wave of temptation and in your face visibility that rocked you back on your feet with a supernatural force.
As a child my late and wonderful dad would take enormous pleasure from the Piccadilly Circus lights. In many ways it was rather like my gentle introduction to the West End. This was a private invitation to a world that had hitherto felt very special but at the same time enclosed. Suddenly wintry Sunday evenings became supersonic and jet propelled, galvanised into life.
So now the Piccadilly lights have been switched off and it is difficult to imagine how we'll manage with this loss, this detachment from something we'd become accustomed to, a dramatic departure from a London that was deeply lovable. How are we ever going to cope without the Piccadilly Circus lights. It'll be like a Manchester City without a Sergio Aguero, tennis without Sir Andy Murray, cricket without its finest batsmen and rugby without its most aggressive prop forwards. Simply unthinkable.
It is time to count down to the day when those lovely old lights are switched back on and London salutes to its homage to electricity. How I'll miss the Piccadilly Circus lights. I'm sure you'll all miss them as much as I do. The rumour is that it'll be this autumn. I know Eros is counting down the days. Let there be light.
Half way through January and I'm still finding my way into the year and all the best to Donald Trump.
Half way through January and I'm still finding my way into the year. All the best to Donald Trump.
We're half way through January and I'm still finding my way into the year. I still feel under the weather but I still feel connected to the rest of the world. The arms and legs are still functioning, but the viral infection is a bit of a drag at the moment. The cough is still hanging around rather like an unwelcome impostor, the last person to leave a party. I do feel flat and listless at the moment but the desire and willingness to engage with the day is hearteningly present.
But I've every confidence in my immediate health and by the end of the week, all being well, I'd like to think that, given a certain amount of effort and perseverance I will get there. January is renowned for its back pains, viruses and coughing fits. We all feel poorly and down in the mouth. But once all those debilitating sneezes and sniffles have gone, I should be well on the road to recovery.
The world outside looks quite sad and sullen. January is like a long, winding and meandering road that seems to go on for ever. How often are motorists encouraged to take a break in case they feel sleepy? At the moment it feels as if we've all been driving indefinitely and are desperate to stop at a motorway cafe or service station. If we drive for long enough we'll probably find a hard shoulder or a bite to eat. How your body feels as if it's in a permanent state of rebellion. You know you're feeling fine but deep inside you there are demonstrations and marches on the streets of London. Half of you feels perfect but the other half just wants to wave the white flag of surrender.
Anyway I'm sure that at some point during the following week I'll be fit and raring to go. So hopefully it'll be time to dig out the hiking boots perhaps, take in a safari holiday in Africa, swim the Atlantic, sail around the world a couple of times and then pop into the Seychelles for a month or so. Hardly the most rigorous schedule but you have to be proactive. I'm sure my doctor would thoroughly recommend it. Oh I mustn't forget. What about a month or so in the Trump towers hotel. Now there's a popular subject at the moment.
Yes everybody. We're just days away from the inauguration of Donald Trump as the next President of the United States. Now there's a sentence I didn't think I'd ever utter in any context. Even now it still sounds like the latest Hollywood movie blockbuster. No-one thought it could ever happen and for most of America this must be Apocalypse Now or maybe not. Are there any Hollywood producers and directors brave enough to put their money where the mouths are? It has all the classic makings of an Oscar nominated movie but which actor would have the courage of their convictions to be Trump?
At the moment the vacuum cleaners are in full hoovering mode, chairs are being arranged and America is about to take a sharp intake of breath. The whole inauguration ceremony is a painstakingly military operation and Trump is dry cleaning his well tailored suit, ironing his shirts and dusting himself down. He will, of course, look immaculate on the day but whether America is ready is quite another thing.
And still Trump wakes up every day and still the ridiculous remarks pour out of the man like a raging river. Trump is surrounded by his own cast of soap opera and Hollywood surrealism. Yesterday he met our very own Michael Gove, a Conservative politician who probably deserves a medal. What on earth did they have in common with each other and what did they find to talk about? And yet maybe this could be the kind of relationship the Americans were dreaming about.
Gove is the well educated Etonian with a stiff upper British lip and reserve while dear old Donald Trump is brash, rash and a bit on the tactless side to put it bluntly. Gove is politically astute, well read and an experienced campaigner while poor Donald is probably wondering what's happened to him in the last six months or so. It defies any kind of credibility and those Hollywood script writers are still scratching their heads in bemusement.
Still the fact remains that Donald Trump is poised to become the commander in chief and leader of a vast country with so many tensions and uncertainties that even Trump must be questioning his sanity. There are so many complex race issues and foreign policy dilemmas that if there are any psychiatrists in the house perhaps Donald may be tempted to make an appointment with one of them. Still I feel sure that he'll find coping mechanisms because that's what struggling American presidents are supposed to do anyway.
But you've got to give the man a chance. It isn't as if the man has committed a heinous crime or broken into a bank. We know he owns those garish and outlandish hotels, hotels that look like something out of an episode of Dynasty or even Dallas. The feeling remains that the country is about to wake up in a Disney amusement park next Saturday morning. But with that blond mop of hair and that extraordinary family behind him the nation will privately chuckle for a couple of hours before just accepting their fate.
Your mind goes back to Ronald Reagan and that 1980s outpouring of love. Reagan had a considerable political background behind him but if you'd told him that he'd be President in his lifetime he'd have probably slapped you on the back and told you to live in the real world. But it all came to pass and in one huge explosion of populist support, the whole of America feel deeply in love with him. In fact they were so besotted with the man that maybe they felt as if every day was a birthday. But there were always underlying reservations about Regan as a President because the man occasionally looked quite distant from outside events and sadly baffled by ill health in later life.
For a 70 plus Donald Trump all of the dynamics and omens look dramatically far removed from the golden days of Reagan. There's no Margaret Thatcher to ride about on horses with although he does have a female counterpart in Theresa May to confide in if all goes haywire. Trump has none of the thoroughbred pedigree of a Reagan who always looked as if he knew what he was doing. Trump is a man, at the moment, still in the dark without a torch and if he does bump into a piece of furniture he may need to get up again quickly and hit the ground running.
So now we're all ready for the great Trump revolution. None of us can even begin to imagine what the future holds for America. For all Reagan's faults and foibles, he was still the boss, a strong and assertive man who stuck by his principles through thick and thin. From here in Britain we can only gaze across the pond and wish our American friends the very best. These look like worrying times not only for the whole world but for a America that can only sit in judgment.
At this moment in time there are the inevitable sniggers and sceptical sneers in the air. We would like to think that all is well and that everything turns out in much the way that it did for Judy Garland all those decades ago. There was a Yellow Brick Road for Ms Garland and by some wondrous miracle, the world turned into a Technicolour fantasyland. But, for Trump the hope must be the Tin Man keeps well away from him. It's a tough world out there and may get a whole lot tougher before it gets any better. All the best Donald. We're with you all the way.
We're half way through January and I'm still finding my way into the year. I still feel under the weather but I still feel connected to the rest of the world. The arms and legs are still functioning, but the viral infection is a bit of a drag at the moment. The cough is still hanging around rather like an unwelcome impostor, the last person to leave a party. I do feel flat and listless at the moment but the desire and willingness to engage with the day is hearteningly present.
But I've every confidence in my immediate health and by the end of the week, all being well, I'd like to think that, given a certain amount of effort and perseverance I will get there. January is renowned for its back pains, viruses and coughing fits. We all feel poorly and down in the mouth. But once all those debilitating sneezes and sniffles have gone, I should be well on the road to recovery.
The world outside looks quite sad and sullen. January is like a long, winding and meandering road that seems to go on for ever. How often are motorists encouraged to take a break in case they feel sleepy? At the moment it feels as if we've all been driving indefinitely and are desperate to stop at a motorway cafe or service station. If we drive for long enough we'll probably find a hard shoulder or a bite to eat. How your body feels as if it's in a permanent state of rebellion. You know you're feeling fine but deep inside you there are demonstrations and marches on the streets of London. Half of you feels perfect but the other half just wants to wave the white flag of surrender.
Anyway I'm sure that at some point during the following week I'll be fit and raring to go. So hopefully it'll be time to dig out the hiking boots perhaps, take in a safari holiday in Africa, swim the Atlantic, sail around the world a couple of times and then pop into the Seychelles for a month or so. Hardly the most rigorous schedule but you have to be proactive. I'm sure my doctor would thoroughly recommend it. Oh I mustn't forget. What about a month or so in the Trump towers hotel. Now there's a popular subject at the moment.
Yes everybody. We're just days away from the inauguration of Donald Trump as the next President of the United States. Now there's a sentence I didn't think I'd ever utter in any context. Even now it still sounds like the latest Hollywood movie blockbuster. No-one thought it could ever happen and for most of America this must be Apocalypse Now or maybe not. Are there any Hollywood producers and directors brave enough to put their money where the mouths are? It has all the classic makings of an Oscar nominated movie but which actor would have the courage of their convictions to be Trump?
At the moment the vacuum cleaners are in full hoovering mode, chairs are being arranged and America is about to take a sharp intake of breath. The whole inauguration ceremony is a painstakingly military operation and Trump is dry cleaning his well tailored suit, ironing his shirts and dusting himself down. He will, of course, look immaculate on the day but whether America is ready is quite another thing.
And still Trump wakes up every day and still the ridiculous remarks pour out of the man like a raging river. Trump is surrounded by his own cast of soap opera and Hollywood surrealism. Yesterday he met our very own Michael Gove, a Conservative politician who probably deserves a medal. What on earth did they have in common with each other and what did they find to talk about? And yet maybe this could be the kind of relationship the Americans were dreaming about.
Gove is the well educated Etonian with a stiff upper British lip and reserve while dear old Donald Trump is brash, rash and a bit on the tactless side to put it bluntly. Gove is politically astute, well read and an experienced campaigner while poor Donald is probably wondering what's happened to him in the last six months or so. It defies any kind of credibility and those Hollywood script writers are still scratching their heads in bemusement.
Still the fact remains that Donald Trump is poised to become the commander in chief and leader of a vast country with so many tensions and uncertainties that even Trump must be questioning his sanity. There are so many complex race issues and foreign policy dilemmas that if there are any psychiatrists in the house perhaps Donald may be tempted to make an appointment with one of them. Still I feel sure that he'll find coping mechanisms because that's what struggling American presidents are supposed to do anyway.
But you've got to give the man a chance. It isn't as if the man has committed a heinous crime or broken into a bank. We know he owns those garish and outlandish hotels, hotels that look like something out of an episode of Dynasty or even Dallas. The feeling remains that the country is about to wake up in a Disney amusement park next Saturday morning. But with that blond mop of hair and that extraordinary family behind him the nation will privately chuckle for a couple of hours before just accepting their fate.
Your mind goes back to Ronald Reagan and that 1980s outpouring of love. Reagan had a considerable political background behind him but if you'd told him that he'd be President in his lifetime he'd have probably slapped you on the back and told you to live in the real world. But it all came to pass and in one huge explosion of populist support, the whole of America feel deeply in love with him. In fact they were so besotted with the man that maybe they felt as if every day was a birthday. But there were always underlying reservations about Regan as a President because the man occasionally looked quite distant from outside events and sadly baffled by ill health in later life.
For a 70 plus Donald Trump all of the dynamics and omens look dramatically far removed from the golden days of Reagan. There's no Margaret Thatcher to ride about on horses with although he does have a female counterpart in Theresa May to confide in if all goes haywire. Trump has none of the thoroughbred pedigree of a Reagan who always looked as if he knew what he was doing. Trump is a man, at the moment, still in the dark without a torch and if he does bump into a piece of furniture he may need to get up again quickly and hit the ground running.
So now we're all ready for the great Trump revolution. None of us can even begin to imagine what the future holds for America. For all Reagan's faults and foibles, he was still the boss, a strong and assertive man who stuck by his principles through thick and thin. From here in Britain we can only gaze across the pond and wish our American friends the very best. These look like worrying times not only for the whole world but for a America that can only sit in judgment.
At this moment in time there are the inevitable sniggers and sceptical sneers in the air. We would like to think that all is well and that everything turns out in much the way that it did for Judy Garland all those decades ago. There was a Yellow Brick Road for Ms Garland and by some wondrous miracle, the world turned into a Technicolour fantasyland. But, for Trump the hope must be the Tin Man keeps well away from him. It's a tough world out there and may get a whole lot tougher before it gets any better. All the best Donald. We're with you all the way.
Saturday 14 January 2017
Dimitri Payet - overpaid and farewell to all that.
Dimitri Payet- West Ham's rebel and now yesterday's fish and chip paper.
You could somehow see it coming. In fact I could see it from quite a distance. Dimitri Payet, West Ham's rebel, traitor, turncoat, and maverick, made it utterly clear that he no longer felt any feeling or affection for the club and that the sooner he got back onto the Eurostar train which would take him back to his spiritual club Marseille the better. It is treachery of the most terrible kind.
Now there are all kinds of issues and sensitive discussion points here. Why on earth does a player sign a five year contract if he quite clearly has no intention of honouring that contract? Payet has not only betrayed West Ham but he's broken the hearts of the devoted supporters who placed their implicit trust in him. He has also undermined the intelligence of every football fan, manager and fellow player up and down the land. He may think he's on strike but to the impartial observer he should be immediately struck off the list.
We know loyalty in football contracts isn't the worth the fag packet they're written on and probably went out of fashion with trams and trolley buses. But the fact is that Dimitri Payet is just the latest of footballing prima donnas. Payet is spoilt something rotten, pampered beyond reason and paid enormous sums of money by a club that once cherished the game's morals and ethics. This is not to suggest that the rest of the Football League and its clubs should be in any way blamed for these reprehensible actions. But at times you do wonder how these so called superstars can just be over indulged and made a fuss of when it does seem, quite clearly, that such high self esteem is maybe misplaced.
Payet. to all intents and purposes, is undoubtedly one of the most stunning of all footballing talents. He treats a ball with all the care that a mother lavishes a child, sees goals where others simply can't and has the most exquisite of touches with a football. Payet has perception, peripheral vision and the ability to create a goal out of nothing. His free kicks have an air of Cezanne about them and his artistic canvas is full of bright, dazzling colours that have a rainbow quality about them. But what happened to Payet the player? Has the player been consumed by his own adulation?
There is a sense here that Payet may think he is the best thing since sliced bread. And yet he may also have a much higher opinion of himself than others do. The ball is, quite literally, in Payet's court although it does seem that the Frenchman has a touch of the vainglorious about him. It would appear now that this is the time for deep reflection and careful re-evaluation although Payet may think otherwise.
The fact is that Dimitri Payet is terribly misguided, foolish and foolhardy to put it mildly, His behaviour is that of a nursery child who just cries because the other kids keep making fun of and tormenting him. Hindsight may be a wonderful thing so maybe he should have returned to France months ago when he knew things weren't going well for him.
The rumours are that Payet and his family hadn't settled properly in London. There is restlessness and mutiny in the London Stadium air and surely the man has to be allowed to part company with the club. West Ham should do the honourable thing by tearing up this so called binding contract and sever all connections with the player. There can be no place for these superstars, richly rewarded and excessively praised at times. Certainly Payet's is more than a case of homesickness although, to those on the outside Payet has made this patently obvious.
Undoubtedly Payet was by far the best player for France in last year's Euros and was unfortunate to be on the losing side for France when his countrymen were beaten by Portugal in the Final. But the truth is that, for West Ham this season, Payet has been appalling. The goals have dried up almost inexplicably and apart from a sensational free- kick against Liverpool at Anfield, the Frenchman has lost his way and now needs a moral compass more than ever.
At the beginning of 2017 Payet was still in the West Ham squad. But when he failed to appear for the the Premier League game against Manchester United there was a sense that the game was up. He sat in his warm track suit on the bench wishing he could be eating langoustine in Marseille. Maybe a bottle of French wine would not have come a miss. Perhaps he may have been wondering what happened to those sardines that another famous French footballer once so memorably quoted. France loves its poets and philosophers but for Dimitri Payet this is just literary nonsense.
So here West Ham are in another pickle, another knotty predicament. This afernoon they face a Crystal Palace side whose manager once trod West Ham's gilded dressing rooms. Sam Allardyce is back at the club whose supporters constantly vilified and reviled him. Allardyce believed in the belt and braces approach to football, grit over wit and graft over craft. The football was completely lacking in any kind of subtlety and variety. In their last couple of seasons at Upton Park, Allardyce did achieve some kind of buoyancy and contentment at West Ham but by then it was far too late. The collateral damage had been done.
Still West Ham, under a now very dispirited and distraught Slaven Bilic, must, you feel sure, try to concentrate their fullest attention on today's match against Crystal Palace. If not then this could be the longest and hardest second half of a season any Premier League club will ever experience. Personally nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see Dimitri Payet board his Eurostar train, wave farewell to London and allow West Ham to write another chapter in their history. It is a fond hope.
You could somehow see it coming. In fact I could see it from quite a distance. Dimitri Payet, West Ham's rebel, traitor, turncoat, and maverick, made it utterly clear that he no longer felt any feeling or affection for the club and that the sooner he got back onto the Eurostar train which would take him back to his spiritual club Marseille the better. It is treachery of the most terrible kind.
Now there are all kinds of issues and sensitive discussion points here. Why on earth does a player sign a five year contract if he quite clearly has no intention of honouring that contract? Payet has not only betrayed West Ham but he's broken the hearts of the devoted supporters who placed their implicit trust in him. He has also undermined the intelligence of every football fan, manager and fellow player up and down the land. He may think he's on strike but to the impartial observer he should be immediately struck off the list.
We know loyalty in football contracts isn't the worth the fag packet they're written on and probably went out of fashion with trams and trolley buses. But the fact is that Dimitri Payet is just the latest of footballing prima donnas. Payet is spoilt something rotten, pampered beyond reason and paid enormous sums of money by a club that once cherished the game's morals and ethics. This is not to suggest that the rest of the Football League and its clubs should be in any way blamed for these reprehensible actions. But at times you do wonder how these so called superstars can just be over indulged and made a fuss of when it does seem, quite clearly, that such high self esteem is maybe misplaced.
Payet. to all intents and purposes, is undoubtedly one of the most stunning of all footballing talents. He treats a ball with all the care that a mother lavishes a child, sees goals where others simply can't and has the most exquisite of touches with a football. Payet has perception, peripheral vision and the ability to create a goal out of nothing. His free kicks have an air of Cezanne about them and his artistic canvas is full of bright, dazzling colours that have a rainbow quality about them. But what happened to Payet the player? Has the player been consumed by his own adulation?
There is a sense here that Payet may think he is the best thing since sliced bread. And yet he may also have a much higher opinion of himself than others do. The ball is, quite literally, in Payet's court although it does seem that the Frenchman has a touch of the vainglorious about him. It would appear now that this is the time for deep reflection and careful re-evaluation although Payet may think otherwise.
The fact is that Dimitri Payet is terribly misguided, foolish and foolhardy to put it mildly, His behaviour is that of a nursery child who just cries because the other kids keep making fun of and tormenting him. Hindsight may be a wonderful thing so maybe he should have returned to France months ago when he knew things weren't going well for him.
The rumours are that Payet and his family hadn't settled properly in London. There is restlessness and mutiny in the London Stadium air and surely the man has to be allowed to part company with the club. West Ham should do the honourable thing by tearing up this so called binding contract and sever all connections with the player. There can be no place for these superstars, richly rewarded and excessively praised at times. Certainly Payet's is more than a case of homesickness although, to those on the outside Payet has made this patently obvious.
Undoubtedly Payet was by far the best player for France in last year's Euros and was unfortunate to be on the losing side for France when his countrymen were beaten by Portugal in the Final. But the truth is that, for West Ham this season, Payet has been appalling. The goals have dried up almost inexplicably and apart from a sensational free- kick against Liverpool at Anfield, the Frenchman has lost his way and now needs a moral compass more than ever.
At the beginning of 2017 Payet was still in the West Ham squad. But when he failed to appear for the the Premier League game against Manchester United there was a sense that the game was up. He sat in his warm track suit on the bench wishing he could be eating langoustine in Marseille. Maybe a bottle of French wine would not have come a miss. Perhaps he may have been wondering what happened to those sardines that another famous French footballer once so memorably quoted. France loves its poets and philosophers but for Dimitri Payet this is just literary nonsense.
So here West Ham are in another pickle, another knotty predicament. This afernoon they face a Crystal Palace side whose manager once trod West Ham's gilded dressing rooms. Sam Allardyce is back at the club whose supporters constantly vilified and reviled him. Allardyce believed in the belt and braces approach to football, grit over wit and graft over craft. The football was completely lacking in any kind of subtlety and variety. In their last couple of seasons at Upton Park, Allardyce did achieve some kind of buoyancy and contentment at West Ham but by then it was far too late. The collateral damage had been done.
Still West Ham, under a now very dispirited and distraught Slaven Bilic, must, you feel sure, try to concentrate their fullest attention on today's match against Crystal Palace. If not then this could be the longest and hardest second half of a season any Premier League club will ever experience. Personally nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see Dimitri Payet board his Eurostar train, wave farewell to London and allow West Ham to write another chapter in their history. It is a fond hope.
Friday 13 January 2017
Let it snow.
Let it snow- the winter snows have arrived.
Oh yes folks. It's snowing. Yippee! After an absence of a couple of years now the snow they've been confidently predicting for a while is finally falling and how we've missed it. It's rather like an emotional re-union with an old friend. This is not to say that we've forgotten what it looks like but more of a delightful reminder of winters long since gone when it seemed to snow for ever.
You know the stuff I'm referring to. There were those thick white flakes that slanted across our towns, cities, farmlands and motorways with an almost refreshing and slightly nostalgic consistency. It swept across roads and streets, floating across our British landscapes and then bouncing gracefully onto wet pavements with all the grace of a Nureyev or Wayne Sleep.
Yes that's it. There was a balletic quality about snow, twisting and turning in the sky before briefly pirouetting in the air. It would fall from the slate grey sky steadily and tentatively as if ever so slightly self conscious at first but then with purpose and meaning. And now it's here again on cue. It still feels as if it's late because as we all know it should snow on Christmas Day so maybe we should tell if off and order it to come back again when we're all ready for it. Still, it's nice to see you again snow. You're a welcome sight. You're looking healthier than ever before. You could be accused of a lack of punctuality but you'll never hear me complaining. Now that sounds like an old song.
But the snow I'm talking about is the snow I can remember from another age. In the mid 1980s the snow came down firmly and emphatically as if making some bold metereological statement. But then wonder of wonders it just kept falling and falling so heavily and persistently that it settled on the ground rather like some stubborn tramp who refuses to move on. It was the kind of snow that refused to go away when it was told to do so and remained exactly where it was for the best part of four months.
During one very cold 1980s winter the snow came down in thick clumps, furious, intense, insistent and almost anarchic. There was a savage intensity to the snow that had to be seen to be believed. Before you could blink there were thick piles of snow on the ground and I can still remember clomping and traipsing through it rather like one of those hardened explorers. All I needed was a good set of skis, a pair of goggles and warming boots. Maybe all I needed was a chalet, a muscular set of mountains, a slope and plenty of Schnapps to warm the stomach afterwards.
Seriously the winter of 1982 or circa 1982 had to be one of the hardest, coldest and most demanding winters that I can remember. The snow just kept dropping from on high with an almost biting tenacity. It was as if the last heavy snowfall that had accompanied my birth twenty years earlier was determined to make its presence felt again. It had a strange and powerful physicality about it, sweeping and cutting across my face and then fizzling out eventually when it thought it had enough.
But somehow snow reminds us of our childhood. It takes us back to that wondrous morning when we flung open our curtains, opened our mouths with astonishment and declared to the rest of the world that it was indeed snowing. Now where did that come from? We didn't care that it was freezing and you had to be ready for school.
It was then that you realised that the cold was somehow irrelevant. It was snowing and this was your chance to go crazy in the playground with the snow. So you rapidly threw on your thick coat, ran out of your home, sprinted towards school and then launched your barrage of snowballs at your mates. How cool was that? You couldn't wait to get to school because this represented the perfect opportunity to let off steam.
I can remember those thick snowdrifts, those carpets of snow that seemed to have underground tunnels, subterranean caves where the kids of my age would just play and play. We spent hours and hours rolling together and moulding huge clumps of white snow, throwing the snow gleefully in the general direction of your friend before laughing deliriously as your friend toppled backwards into yet more snow. Cat Stevens once recalled the days of the old schoolyard when we used to laugh a lot. And we did.
And now it's almost lunch time here in London town and the snow does seemed to have stopped. What a disappointment. Just as we were getting used to it as well. Never mind perhaps it'll come back again when it feels the moment is an opportune one. We were given ample warning last night so there remains a strong possibility that it might come back towards the end of January. Or some time next week. But here we are it's Friday. it's not 5.00 and it's not Crackerjack. That belongs to the annals of TV history and besides perhaps it snowed heavily while Crackerjack was on. What a golden memory.
Anway I think it's time to dig out my boots, pull on the gloves and indulge in some good old fashioned snow tomfoolery. None of us could ever quite understood why that big old snowman had to be decorated with a carrot for a nose, twigs that symbolised its hair, two pebbles for eyes and a hat on its head. Maybe this was regulation uniform for snowmen across the world. Then we go on an improvised toboggan which looks like one of those tea trays in our kitchen.
But we loved the snow even if it does melt eventually and turn to rather slippery, dangerous and precarious slush. Then it turns to ice and I for one approach the whole concept of walking with a certain amount of terror in my heart and deep foreboding. How to cross roads and tread on pavements. It's the most daunting challenge ever to face the human race. But, trembling quite unnecessarily, we tried to pretend that there was nothing to be afraid of because when you were a kid nothing fazed you or unsettled you. You were brave, intrepid and mentally resourceful. It's only ice after all and yet I was terrified, held hostage by the ice. Silly I know but true.
It's time to move on with the day without any of that romantic, soppy snow that most of us associate with Christmas, Santa Claus and Christmas cards. In the goodness of time it may still return when least expected. It does look very visually stunning and almost an idyllic wintry scene. The sun has come surging out of its temporary hibernation and although bitterly cold, it still looks pretty good out there.
January is still weighing up its options and if all goes according to a child's plan we'll probably see the white stuff again shortly. It may snow decisively this time but then have a change of heart. Anyway I'm looking forward to a heart warming bowl of chicken soup. If it is snowing wherever you are then have a brilliant time folks. If you see Frosty the Snowman on your travels then send him my regards. Have a good one.
Oh yes folks. It's snowing. Yippee! After an absence of a couple of years now the snow they've been confidently predicting for a while is finally falling and how we've missed it. It's rather like an emotional re-union with an old friend. This is not to say that we've forgotten what it looks like but more of a delightful reminder of winters long since gone when it seemed to snow for ever.
You know the stuff I'm referring to. There were those thick white flakes that slanted across our towns, cities, farmlands and motorways with an almost refreshing and slightly nostalgic consistency. It swept across roads and streets, floating across our British landscapes and then bouncing gracefully onto wet pavements with all the grace of a Nureyev or Wayne Sleep.
Yes that's it. There was a balletic quality about snow, twisting and turning in the sky before briefly pirouetting in the air. It would fall from the slate grey sky steadily and tentatively as if ever so slightly self conscious at first but then with purpose and meaning. And now it's here again on cue. It still feels as if it's late because as we all know it should snow on Christmas Day so maybe we should tell if off and order it to come back again when we're all ready for it. Still, it's nice to see you again snow. You're a welcome sight. You're looking healthier than ever before. You could be accused of a lack of punctuality but you'll never hear me complaining. Now that sounds like an old song.
But the snow I'm talking about is the snow I can remember from another age. In the mid 1980s the snow came down firmly and emphatically as if making some bold metereological statement. But then wonder of wonders it just kept falling and falling so heavily and persistently that it settled on the ground rather like some stubborn tramp who refuses to move on. It was the kind of snow that refused to go away when it was told to do so and remained exactly where it was for the best part of four months.
During one very cold 1980s winter the snow came down in thick clumps, furious, intense, insistent and almost anarchic. There was a savage intensity to the snow that had to be seen to be believed. Before you could blink there were thick piles of snow on the ground and I can still remember clomping and traipsing through it rather like one of those hardened explorers. All I needed was a good set of skis, a pair of goggles and warming boots. Maybe all I needed was a chalet, a muscular set of mountains, a slope and plenty of Schnapps to warm the stomach afterwards.
Seriously the winter of 1982 or circa 1982 had to be one of the hardest, coldest and most demanding winters that I can remember. The snow just kept dropping from on high with an almost biting tenacity. It was as if the last heavy snowfall that had accompanied my birth twenty years earlier was determined to make its presence felt again. It had a strange and powerful physicality about it, sweeping and cutting across my face and then fizzling out eventually when it thought it had enough.
But somehow snow reminds us of our childhood. It takes us back to that wondrous morning when we flung open our curtains, opened our mouths with astonishment and declared to the rest of the world that it was indeed snowing. Now where did that come from? We didn't care that it was freezing and you had to be ready for school.
It was then that you realised that the cold was somehow irrelevant. It was snowing and this was your chance to go crazy in the playground with the snow. So you rapidly threw on your thick coat, ran out of your home, sprinted towards school and then launched your barrage of snowballs at your mates. How cool was that? You couldn't wait to get to school because this represented the perfect opportunity to let off steam.
I can remember those thick snowdrifts, those carpets of snow that seemed to have underground tunnels, subterranean caves where the kids of my age would just play and play. We spent hours and hours rolling together and moulding huge clumps of white snow, throwing the snow gleefully in the general direction of your friend before laughing deliriously as your friend toppled backwards into yet more snow. Cat Stevens once recalled the days of the old schoolyard when we used to laugh a lot. And we did.
And now it's almost lunch time here in London town and the snow does seemed to have stopped. What a disappointment. Just as we were getting used to it as well. Never mind perhaps it'll come back again when it feels the moment is an opportune one. We were given ample warning last night so there remains a strong possibility that it might come back towards the end of January. Or some time next week. But here we are it's Friday. it's not 5.00 and it's not Crackerjack. That belongs to the annals of TV history and besides perhaps it snowed heavily while Crackerjack was on. What a golden memory.
Anway I think it's time to dig out my boots, pull on the gloves and indulge in some good old fashioned snow tomfoolery. None of us could ever quite understood why that big old snowman had to be decorated with a carrot for a nose, twigs that symbolised its hair, two pebbles for eyes and a hat on its head. Maybe this was regulation uniform for snowmen across the world. Then we go on an improvised toboggan which looks like one of those tea trays in our kitchen.
But we loved the snow even if it does melt eventually and turn to rather slippery, dangerous and precarious slush. Then it turns to ice and I for one approach the whole concept of walking with a certain amount of terror in my heart and deep foreboding. How to cross roads and tread on pavements. It's the most daunting challenge ever to face the human race. But, trembling quite unnecessarily, we tried to pretend that there was nothing to be afraid of because when you were a kid nothing fazed you or unsettled you. You were brave, intrepid and mentally resourceful. It's only ice after all and yet I was terrified, held hostage by the ice. Silly I know but true.
It's time to move on with the day without any of that romantic, soppy snow that most of us associate with Christmas, Santa Claus and Christmas cards. In the goodness of time it may still return when least expected. It does look very visually stunning and almost an idyllic wintry scene. The sun has come surging out of its temporary hibernation and although bitterly cold, it still looks pretty good out there.
January is still weighing up its options and if all goes according to a child's plan we'll probably see the white stuff again shortly. It may snow decisively this time but then have a change of heart. Anyway I'm looking forward to a heart warming bowl of chicken soup. If it is snowing wherever you are then have a brilliant time folks. If you see Frosty the Snowman on your travels then send him my regards. Have a good one.
Thursday 12 January 2017
Graham Taylor- a manager deeply misunderstood perhaps but still an England manager.
Graham Taylor- a manager deeply misunderstood perhaps but still an England manager.
Graham Taylor, the ex England manager, today died at 72 after a suspected heart attack. Taylor, who single-handledly transformed the fortunes of Watford football club during the late 1970s and then successfully, during the 1980s, may well be remembered for all the wrong reasons but was undoubtedly held in the highest regard by both supporters, fellow managers and the administrators within the game. Football meant a great deal to Taylor but his methods and techniques would always be highly questionable. The purists thought him a dinosaur but the ardent advocates of the long ball game saw him as the ulitmate Messiah who could do no wrong.
During the 1950s Wolves manager Stan Cullis maintained, much to the horror and disgust of his managerial rivals. that the long ball game, which almost looked absurdly simple at first, was in fact, on closer inspection, a grotesque distortion of the game. According to Cullis the long ball game was the quickest and most expedient route to goal. For Cullis it was all about straightforward pragmatism rather than the delicate sophistication of the Brazilians, Italians or the Argentinians. Football was never complicated and for Cullis it was all about the end result rather than the artistic product that mattered.
Whether it be the lofty long goal-kick punt or the long and optimistic punt from full back all the way to the opposition area, the game had suddenly become all about the law of averages, percentages and not very pretty into the bargain. It looked ugly, It looked primitive and it did nothing to enhance the essential beauty and poetry of modern football. But hey what did they know? What nonsense and what utter tosh. Cullis did it his way and nobody ever quibbled with him because he knew best.
And so too did Graham Taylor. Taylor joined Watford in the late 1970s and established one of the most lucrative relationships with an evergreen and world wide famous pop star. When Taylor joined forces with the then Elton John, the comics and satirists sharpened their tongues and pens. It was match made in heaven and yet to those on the outside it often appeared that both were just flattered to be in the same company as each other. Still it worked and worked beautifully because both developed a businesslike understanding with each other.
When Taylor was appointed Watford manager he had the basic structure and framework in place. Perhaps Taylor's most important foundation stone was the tall and menacing striker Ross Jenkins. Jenkins was relatively unknown at the time but Taylor converted him into a lethal goal scorer more than capable of roughing up and damaging defenders egos. Jenkins was both bruising, bullish and belligerent and was never averse to a ferocious battle or two.
Slowly but surely Taylor moulded and carefully nurtured his players into an effective and productive attacking unit. Then he ran into the most heated of all arguments with those who liked their football with a touch of caviar as opposed to those who preferred good old fashioned salt and vinegar. Taylor, from a very early point in his Watford career, made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with the short passing game or the game that made you sigh with appreciation.
Rightly or wrongly Taylor believed that if you launched the ball into outer space rather than treat it with an almost reverential worship than you had to be right. All of those pretty patterns in midfield and quick, short passes between defenders and midfielders were totally unnecessary embellishments, more of a hindrance rather than a help. That way, Taylor believed led down the road to ruination. Short passing could only lead to the darkest cul-de-sac rather than a glamorous boulevard.
But for all of Taylor's critics he did believe in placing his lasting faith in young and unknown players poised to break into regular first team football. Taylor always reminded of you an over enthusiastic PE teacher rather than the animated coach who does his utmost to keep his players on their toes. In fact Taylor was so competitive that even the most routine five-a-sides game in training were taken perhaps too seriously.
Still the results took precedence to everything else for Taylor. But he did effect remarkable transformations and improvments in players who had been hitherto very ordinary. Players such as Nigel Callaghan and John Barnes on their respective wings, Wilf Rostron in the busiest of midfield roles and the remarkably prolific Luther Blissett up front, responded warmly to Taylor's gentle guidance and encouragement.
When Watford were promoted to the old First Division for the first time in the club's history, Taylor quickly made up his mind to whip up a major revolution at Vicarage Road. Soon Watford were playing against a backdrop of the first electronic score-boards in the old First Division and there was the faintest whiff of showbiz commercialism about the club. Watford was all about cheerleaders, dancing girls and an enchanting flamboyance. They were a go- ahead club and Taylor was determined to change attitudes within the game as a whole.
In 1984, Taylor and Elton John led Watford to their first ever FA Cup Final. This, you felt sure, had to be one of Taylor's finest of moments. From his early days at Lincoln Taylor could only have dreamt of taking his team to an FA Cup Final. Sadly Lincoln would not be his preferred choice of football club and Watford instead met Everton in that year's Cup Final.
Even more regrettably Watford were almost effortlessly beaten by a technically superior Everton side that were sharper, hungrier and far too good on the day. When the TV cameras homed in on Elton John it almost felt as if Watford's day of fantasy had been stolen from under their noses. But Taylor was responsible for Watford and he was the man who'd reached his promised land.
The legendary pop star complete with boater hat and natty suit, cried profusely. And yet Taylor had been fundamentally associated with a day they would never forget. Watford were beaten comfortably by Everton that day but Taylor had made the profoundest of personal statements. He'd led out his Watford side at the old Wembley Stadium in an FA Cup Final. Nobody could take that away from him.
And then there were the England years. In the end Graham Taylor shouldn't really have been allowed anywhere near the England manager's job. At first there were the good days, those uplifting moments that had made life so sweet and worthwhile but by 1993 England had found themselves in the deepest of ruts. Frequently there were the nervous jitters, the demoralising defeats in their World Cup qualifying group and then there was the final game in Holland. By now anger and apprehension had set in and the knives were out for poor Taylor. Defeat was unforgivable. Victory was not only compulsory it was the difference between the sack for Taylor and back to club management.
And so it was that Graham Taylor was, almost humiliatingly exposed in a TV documentary, from all angles and positions. Taylor was shown to be human, flawed and vulnerable, a man whose every word. gesture and mannerism would be monitored with microscopic intensity. Suddenly Taylor was on his feet, jumping up and down almost frantically and throwing his arms into the air like a man who'd spent an hour waiting for a bus. Taylor's face was a picture of desperation, alarmed and distressed by life's grave injustices, a man clinging on to a lifeboat.
Taylor almost constantly crept up on the linesman with a constant barrages of complaint, criticism and censure. Then there were the constant reminders to the said linesman about how he was the man who could make or break his job as England management. It was both sad and dramatically heartbreaking. It was like the emasculation of a man's decency, a helpless cry in the wilderness and eventually a release of all those primal human emotions. Give me a break linesman. Thanks to you I'll probably get the sack in the morning. Never has any football manager felt so isolated.
During the 1990s Taylor returned to club management with a moderately successful spell at Aston Villa. You were reminded of how another England manager Sir Alf Ramsey had also ended his football career at Villa's rivals Birmingham City. Taylor, though had not won the World Cup with England and maybe that's where the similarities ended.
But Taylor was far from a disgrace at Villa Park and there were insistent echoes of Taylor's halcyon days at Watford. The football, most unfortunately, failed to have the desired effect on Villa's very discerning fans. After all they'd seen the glory days of Ron Saunders when the old League Championship was impressively won in 1981 so maybe they'd been unreasonably spoilt.
Villa, after all would have the dashing and forthright Tony Morley on the wing, Dennis Mortimer masterminding Villa's midfield, the rock like Ken Mcnaught while Gary Shaw and Andy Gray scored goals almost naturally up front. Graham Taylor had very few of Saunders tools and resources at his disposal and a long term project would become a terrible predicament. Villa blew hot and cold under Taylor but until recently preserved their Premier League status.
In recent years Taylor became a well respected TV pundit for the BBC. His views were shrewd and perceptive, wise and thought provoking. There was a sense that now, in the twilight of his career, Taylor could pass on the considerable depth of his knowledge to an audience who still felt he'd been harshly mistreated. Taylor polarised opinion wherever he went but football meant the world to him. All of that stupid talk of swedes and turnips would have been enough to ruin anybody's appetite. Graham Taylor, a decent man in a game that may have been unfair to him at the time. Football, what a game hey!
Graham Taylor, the ex England manager, today died at 72 after a suspected heart attack. Taylor, who single-handledly transformed the fortunes of Watford football club during the late 1970s and then successfully, during the 1980s, may well be remembered for all the wrong reasons but was undoubtedly held in the highest regard by both supporters, fellow managers and the administrators within the game. Football meant a great deal to Taylor but his methods and techniques would always be highly questionable. The purists thought him a dinosaur but the ardent advocates of the long ball game saw him as the ulitmate Messiah who could do no wrong.
During the 1950s Wolves manager Stan Cullis maintained, much to the horror and disgust of his managerial rivals. that the long ball game, which almost looked absurdly simple at first, was in fact, on closer inspection, a grotesque distortion of the game. According to Cullis the long ball game was the quickest and most expedient route to goal. For Cullis it was all about straightforward pragmatism rather than the delicate sophistication of the Brazilians, Italians or the Argentinians. Football was never complicated and for Cullis it was all about the end result rather than the artistic product that mattered.
Whether it be the lofty long goal-kick punt or the long and optimistic punt from full back all the way to the opposition area, the game had suddenly become all about the law of averages, percentages and not very pretty into the bargain. It looked ugly, It looked primitive and it did nothing to enhance the essential beauty and poetry of modern football. But hey what did they know? What nonsense and what utter tosh. Cullis did it his way and nobody ever quibbled with him because he knew best.
And so too did Graham Taylor. Taylor joined Watford in the late 1970s and established one of the most lucrative relationships with an evergreen and world wide famous pop star. When Taylor joined forces with the then Elton John, the comics and satirists sharpened their tongues and pens. It was match made in heaven and yet to those on the outside it often appeared that both were just flattered to be in the same company as each other. Still it worked and worked beautifully because both developed a businesslike understanding with each other.
When Taylor was appointed Watford manager he had the basic structure and framework in place. Perhaps Taylor's most important foundation stone was the tall and menacing striker Ross Jenkins. Jenkins was relatively unknown at the time but Taylor converted him into a lethal goal scorer more than capable of roughing up and damaging defenders egos. Jenkins was both bruising, bullish and belligerent and was never averse to a ferocious battle or two.
Slowly but surely Taylor moulded and carefully nurtured his players into an effective and productive attacking unit. Then he ran into the most heated of all arguments with those who liked their football with a touch of caviar as opposed to those who preferred good old fashioned salt and vinegar. Taylor, from a very early point in his Watford career, made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with the short passing game or the game that made you sigh with appreciation.
Rightly or wrongly Taylor believed that if you launched the ball into outer space rather than treat it with an almost reverential worship than you had to be right. All of those pretty patterns in midfield and quick, short passes between defenders and midfielders were totally unnecessary embellishments, more of a hindrance rather than a help. That way, Taylor believed led down the road to ruination. Short passing could only lead to the darkest cul-de-sac rather than a glamorous boulevard.
But for all of Taylor's critics he did believe in placing his lasting faith in young and unknown players poised to break into regular first team football. Taylor always reminded of you an over enthusiastic PE teacher rather than the animated coach who does his utmost to keep his players on their toes. In fact Taylor was so competitive that even the most routine five-a-sides game in training were taken perhaps too seriously.
Still the results took precedence to everything else for Taylor. But he did effect remarkable transformations and improvments in players who had been hitherto very ordinary. Players such as Nigel Callaghan and John Barnes on their respective wings, Wilf Rostron in the busiest of midfield roles and the remarkably prolific Luther Blissett up front, responded warmly to Taylor's gentle guidance and encouragement.
When Watford were promoted to the old First Division for the first time in the club's history, Taylor quickly made up his mind to whip up a major revolution at Vicarage Road. Soon Watford were playing against a backdrop of the first electronic score-boards in the old First Division and there was the faintest whiff of showbiz commercialism about the club. Watford was all about cheerleaders, dancing girls and an enchanting flamboyance. They were a go- ahead club and Taylor was determined to change attitudes within the game as a whole.
In 1984, Taylor and Elton John led Watford to their first ever FA Cup Final. This, you felt sure, had to be one of Taylor's finest of moments. From his early days at Lincoln Taylor could only have dreamt of taking his team to an FA Cup Final. Sadly Lincoln would not be his preferred choice of football club and Watford instead met Everton in that year's Cup Final.
Even more regrettably Watford were almost effortlessly beaten by a technically superior Everton side that were sharper, hungrier and far too good on the day. When the TV cameras homed in on Elton John it almost felt as if Watford's day of fantasy had been stolen from under their noses. But Taylor was responsible for Watford and he was the man who'd reached his promised land.
The legendary pop star complete with boater hat and natty suit, cried profusely. And yet Taylor had been fundamentally associated with a day they would never forget. Watford were beaten comfortably by Everton that day but Taylor had made the profoundest of personal statements. He'd led out his Watford side at the old Wembley Stadium in an FA Cup Final. Nobody could take that away from him.
And then there were the England years. In the end Graham Taylor shouldn't really have been allowed anywhere near the England manager's job. At first there were the good days, those uplifting moments that had made life so sweet and worthwhile but by 1993 England had found themselves in the deepest of ruts. Frequently there were the nervous jitters, the demoralising defeats in their World Cup qualifying group and then there was the final game in Holland. By now anger and apprehension had set in and the knives were out for poor Taylor. Defeat was unforgivable. Victory was not only compulsory it was the difference between the sack for Taylor and back to club management.
And so it was that Graham Taylor was, almost humiliatingly exposed in a TV documentary, from all angles and positions. Taylor was shown to be human, flawed and vulnerable, a man whose every word. gesture and mannerism would be monitored with microscopic intensity. Suddenly Taylor was on his feet, jumping up and down almost frantically and throwing his arms into the air like a man who'd spent an hour waiting for a bus. Taylor's face was a picture of desperation, alarmed and distressed by life's grave injustices, a man clinging on to a lifeboat.
Taylor almost constantly crept up on the linesman with a constant barrages of complaint, criticism and censure. Then there were the constant reminders to the said linesman about how he was the man who could make or break his job as England management. It was both sad and dramatically heartbreaking. It was like the emasculation of a man's decency, a helpless cry in the wilderness and eventually a release of all those primal human emotions. Give me a break linesman. Thanks to you I'll probably get the sack in the morning. Never has any football manager felt so isolated.
During the 1990s Taylor returned to club management with a moderately successful spell at Aston Villa. You were reminded of how another England manager Sir Alf Ramsey had also ended his football career at Villa's rivals Birmingham City. Taylor, though had not won the World Cup with England and maybe that's where the similarities ended.
But Taylor was far from a disgrace at Villa Park and there were insistent echoes of Taylor's halcyon days at Watford. The football, most unfortunately, failed to have the desired effect on Villa's very discerning fans. After all they'd seen the glory days of Ron Saunders when the old League Championship was impressively won in 1981 so maybe they'd been unreasonably spoilt.
Villa, after all would have the dashing and forthright Tony Morley on the wing, Dennis Mortimer masterminding Villa's midfield, the rock like Ken Mcnaught while Gary Shaw and Andy Gray scored goals almost naturally up front. Graham Taylor had very few of Saunders tools and resources at his disposal and a long term project would become a terrible predicament. Villa blew hot and cold under Taylor but until recently preserved their Premier League status.
In recent years Taylor became a well respected TV pundit for the BBC. His views were shrewd and perceptive, wise and thought provoking. There was a sense that now, in the twilight of his career, Taylor could pass on the considerable depth of his knowledge to an audience who still felt he'd been harshly mistreated. Taylor polarised opinion wherever he went but football meant the world to him. All of that stupid talk of swedes and turnips would have been enough to ruin anybody's appetite. Graham Taylor, a decent man in a game that may have been unfair to him at the time. Football, what a game hey!
Wednesday 11 January 2017
Barack Obama- good, bad, lukewarm or very ordinary President of the United States
Barack Obama- good, bad, lukewarm or very ordinary President of the United States? Donald Trump is just days from taking over in the White House.
So that's it Barack Obama. Your time is up. It's time to call it a day. You've made your last speech. This is the end of your eight years in office as the most powerful man in the free world. There have been good and bad times. Recently things have got discernibly bad and ropy. Some of your worst critics have just attacked you quite cruelly or maybe deservedly. But all things considered it could have been a whole lot worse. You could have left under a horrible dark cloud with the strong scent of controversy and infamy in your wake. It is almost impossible to tell at the moment.
And yet in the cold light of the day it hasn't really gone as well as Obama could have hoped for. Maybe he didn't need the hassle and aggravation. But sadly that more or less came with the job description Mr Obama so when it came to matters relating to foreign policy and things he did say but shouldn't have said, then perhaps he might have had it coming.
To all outward appearances Obama was smart, presentable, well mannered, civil, tactful and respectable, all the qualities you look for in an American president. But then you make statements that are not quite as pleasing to the ear as they might seem. You go off track and begin to fall into cunning political traps that should have been avoided. When you look at yourself in the mirror at night you begin to see a deeply troubled man, a man wrestling with problems that were just plain insoluble. How to solve the worries of the world Mr. President. It's not easy and never has been.
Of course there was that honeymoon period when Obama was first elected as President and all of the back slapping congratulations that accompanied that first special day in the White House. Here was the first black President of the United States and what could be better than that? It was ground breaking, a breath of fresh air and the best thing that could have happened to the United States.
All of Obama's biggest supporters and followers were just overjoyed and the world fell in love with his easy going charm, his laid back affability, that lovely air of diplomacy and the ability to say the right thing at the right time. Barack Obama would be the finest of all American presidents and the future was unquestionably positive and hopeful. Or so we thought at the time.
Admittedly everything was just fine in the land of Uncle Sam. Obama reached out across his nation and announced himself as one of the most engaging of all political leaders. The smile never really left his face and although there were the inevitable teething problems, he just shrugged them off and believed that anything was possible. America loved a frothy, sentimental Hollywood story.
But then the problems seem to come crowding in around him. The world was still a hostile and volatile place to live in and high ranking government ministers around the world began to land some nasty, wicked punches below the belt. They were verbal upper cuts and swinging hooks and they were beginning to hurt. It was at this point that Obama started struggling and wobbling on his feet, swaying and staggering from side to side under the relentless onslaught like one of the great and late Muhammad Ali's opponents.
And then came 2016 and that more or less spelt the end of Obama's eventful Presidency. Because now there were two very frightening and grizzly bears in front of him. They snarled, snapped and ranted and raved with viciously personal insults. There were childish remarks, damaging insinuations and downright resentment. They were rather like two kids in the school playground scuffling over something trivial and then just fighting senselessly. Sadly there were no pacifying teachers to calm everybody around them so it just fizzled into a score- draw.
Obama was now faced by two more opponents. In the red corner there was Donald Trump, Now who saw that coming? At first most of us thought Trump was the most convincing April Fools joke since time immemorial. We all knew that he was one of the richest multi- billionaire businessmen of all time. We also knew that he'd been declared bankrupt and most of the world thought he was one of those ambitious opportunists. Some thought him bonkers. Excuse me America Donald wants to be President of the United States. Now what you are talking about Donald. You've had far too many bottles of Jack Daniels so please leave it to the professionals.
But oh no Donald was perfectly serious. Here was a corrupt, outspoken and in some quarters, deeply obnoxious man who hadn't a clue what he was doing. When Trump posted his credentials to the social media and the world, some of us sniggered and cackled very loudly. Suddenly America had been visited by one of Woody Allen's distant cousins. Hollywood had become a self fulfilling prophecy.
Last year Donald finally cracked America's resistance and the nation fell for it. Suddenly Donald Trump would become that very attractive poster boy, a matinee idol, a fierce and passionate speaker but perhaps foolhardy into the bargain. He began to let off steam with nonsensical frequency and there were times when Trump began to sound like somebody from Speakers Corner in London's Hyde Park. The comments were well judged and pre-meditated but whether they made any kind of sense would remain debatable.
Then in the other corner there was Hilary Clinton, wife of former President Bill. Now Hilary was a different kettle of fish. Throughout Hilary's political career there were things that happened that maybe didn't cast her in a favourable light. Of course she was dedicated, hard working and totally committed to the American heartland. She'd worked herself selflessly into the ground and tried to win over the sceptics but for the life of her it just didn't seem to be working for her. Poor Hilary. She did try but over and over again they kept hanging her out to dry.
Hilary Clinton had sold America down the Mississipi without a single paddle steamer in sight. In some circles she was devious, secretive, dishonest and totally lacking in any stagecraft. She'd tried to buck the system, pulled wool over people's eyes and generally conducted herself in a manner that simply wasn't becoming of a woman. She'd hidden important government e-mails, gone behind their backs and, or so it seemed, got away with murder. Her hidden agendas were multiplying and there was nowhere to hide. She'd become a busted flush, yesterday's woman, apparently untrustworthy.
So there you are Barack Obama. You've now made that final speech as President of the United States and there is a chilling finality about it all, a final flourish and that signature at the end of the letter. You've lived the dream. You've shaken the hands of those in the highest corridors of world power and you may have done things you may have regretted or indeed felt good about. At times it must have felt you were losing a fighting battle but, when all is said and done, the party is now over and those dancing days are now history. Obama certainly did it his way but whether it was ever good enough only the historians will tell us.
It's time for Mr Obama to leave the White House with wife Michelle and family loyally following. He'll switch off the hall lights, close the curtains, shuffle onto the doorstep very photogenically and pose for the world's cameras. In time we may begin to think he wasn't the worst of American presidents but opinions are conflicting and the world is now beginning to turn its eye to a gentleman with blond hair, strange finger gestures, a furious turn of phrase and, in the eyes of his fiercest critics, an increasing resemblance to a used car salesman. The problem, they may believe, is that this is one very persuasive salesman. From one very admiring Brit, America, you're brilliant. These are very interesting times.
So that's it Barack Obama. Your time is up. It's time to call it a day. You've made your last speech. This is the end of your eight years in office as the most powerful man in the free world. There have been good and bad times. Recently things have got discernibly bad and ropy. Some of your worst critics have just attacked you quite cruelly or maybe deservedly. But all things considered it could have been a whole lot worse. You could have left under a horrible dark cloud with the strong scent of controversy and infamy in your wake. It is almost impossible to tell at the moment.
And yet in the cold light of the day it hasn't really gone as well as Obama could have hoped for. Maybe he didn't need the hassle and aggravation. But sadly that more or less came with the job description Mr Obama so when it came to matters relating to foreign policy and things he did say but shouldn't have said, then perhaps he might have had it coming.
To all outward appearances Obama was smart, presentable, well mannered, civil, tactful and respectable, all the qualities you look for in an American president. But then you make statements that are not quite as pleasing to the ear as they might seem. You go off track and begin to fall into cunning political traps that should have been avoided. When you look at yourself in the mirror at night you begin to see a deeply troubled man, a man wrestling with problems that were just plain insoluble. How to solve the worries of the world Mr. President. It's not easy and never has been.
Of course there was that honeymoon period when Obama was first elected as President and all of the back slapping congratulations that accompanied that first special day in the White House. Here was the first black President of the United States and what could be better than that? It was ground breaking, a breath of fresh air and the best thing that could have happened to the United States.
All of Obama's biggest supporters and followers were just overjoyed and the world fell in love with his easy going charm, his laid back affability, that lovely air of diplomacy and the ability to say the right thing at the right time. Barack Obama would be the finest of all American presidents and the future was unquestionably positive and hopeful. Or so we thought at the time.
Admittedly everything was just fine in the land of Uncle Sam. Obama reached out across his nation and announced himself as one of the most engaging of all political leaders. The smile never really left his face and although there were the inevitable teething problems, he just shrugged them off and believed that anything was possible. America loved a frothy, sentimental Hollywood story.
But then the problems seem to come crowding in around him. The world was still a hostile and volatile place to live in and high ranking government ministers around the world began to land some nasty, wicked punches below the belt. They were verbal upper cuts and swinging hooks and they were beginning to hurt. It was at this point that Obama started struggling and wobbling on his feet, swaying and staggering from side to side under the relentless onslaught like one of the great and late Muhammad Ali's opponents.
And then came 2016 and that more or less spelt the end of Obama's eventful Presidency. Because now there were two very frightening and grizzly bears in front of him. They snarled, snapped and ranted and raved with viciously personal insults. There were childish remarks, damaging insinuations and downright resentment. They were rather like two kids in the school playground scuffling over something trivial and then just fighting senselessly. Sadly there were no pacifying teachers to calm everybody around them so it just fizzled into a score- draw.
Obama was now faced by two more opponents. In the red corner there was Donald Trump, Now who saw that coming? At first most of us thought Trump was the most convincing April Fools joke since time immemorial. We all knew that he was one of the richest multi- billionaire businessmen of all time. We also knew that he'd been declared bankrupt and most of the world thought he was one of those ambitious opportunists. Some thought him bonkers. Excuse me America Donald wants to be President of the United States. Now what you are talking about Donald. You've had far too many bottles of Jack Daniels so please leave it to the professionals.
But oh no Donald was perfectly serious. Here was a corrupt, outspoken and in some quarters, deeply obnoxious man who hadn't a clue what he was doing. When Trump posted his credentials to the social media and the world, some of us sniggered and cackled very loudly. Suddenly America had been visited by one of Woody Allen's distant cousins. Hollywood had become a self fulfilling prophecy.
Last year Donald finally cracked America's resistance and the nation fell for it. Suddenly Donald Trump would become that very attractive poster boy, a matinee idol, a fierce and passionate speaker but perhaps foolhardy into the bargain. He began to let off steam with nonsensical frequency and there were times when Trump began to sound like somebody from Speakers Corner in London's Hyde Park. The comments were well judged and pre-meditated but whether they made any kind of sense would remain debatable.
Then in the other corner there was Hilary Clinton, wife of former President Bill. Now Hilary was a different kettle of fish. Throughout Hilary's political career there were things that happened that maybe didn't cast her in a favourable light. Of course she was dedicated, hard working and totally committed to the American heartland. She'd worked herself selflessly into the ground and tried to win over the sceptics but for the life of her it just didn't seem to be working for her. Poor Hilary. She did try but over and over again they kept hanging her out to dry.
Hilary Clinton had sold America down the Mississipi without a single paddle steamer in sight. In some circles she was devious, secretive, dishonest and totally lacking in any stagecraft. She'd tried to buck the system, pulled wool over people's eyes and generally conducted herself in a manner that simply wasn't becoming of a woman. She'd hidden important government e-mails, gone behind their backs and, or so it seemed, got away with murder. Her hidden agendas were multiplying and there was nowhere to hide. She'd become a busted flush, yesterday's woman, apparently untrustworthy.
So there you are Barack Obama. You've now made that final speech as President of the United States and there is a chilling finality about it all, a final flourish and that signature at the end of the letter. You've lived the dream. You've shaken the hands of those in the highest corridors of world power and you may have done things you may have regretted or indeed felt good about. At times it must have felt you were losing a fighting battle but, when all is said and done, the party is now over and those dancing days are now history. Obama certainly did it his way but whether it was ever good enough only the historians will tell us.
It's time for Mr Obama to leave the White House with wife Michelle and family loyally following. He'll switch off the hall lights, close the curtains, shuffle onto the doorstep very photogenically and pose for the world's cameras. In time we may begin to think he wasn't the worst of American presidents but opinions are conflicting and the world is now beginning to turn its eye to a gentleman with blond hair, strange finger gestures, a furious turn of phrase and, in the eyes of his fiercest critics, an increasing resemblance to a used car salesman. The problem, they may believe, is that this is one very persuasive salesman. From one very admiring Brit, America, you're brilliant. These are very interesting times.
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